


Threadbare

by MissWah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissWah/pseuds/MissWah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is celebrating Sherlock's birthday alone when he receives an unexpected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John trudged up the steps of 221 Baker Street until he reached the door to his room. He walked across to the bed where he promptly collapsed after taking off his coat and shoes. Today had been an extremely long day at the surgery and he was beyond tired. It was days like these when he thought back to the time when he used to run around London with Sherlock- after Sherlock- who was always running off to carry out an experiment or to follow a lead or, most likely, going after the suspect. It was one of the many reasons why John always insisted on going with him. He always followed Sherlock, but now he had gone somewhere where no one could follow.  
  
He still struggled to accept the fact that Sherlock had killed himself. There had been no signs, but then it was always difficult to tell with Sherlock, the man who hid his emotions behind a mask and never let anyone in. It had been clear to John though, that Sherlock had been growing more and more agitated as the case wore on. The man who always kept his emotions in check had snapped at the mere thought that John had been taken in by Moriarty's lie, but he never should have doubted John's loyalty. It had been tested time and time again, from the very beginning to the very end. Only the day after they met John had killed someone to protect Sherlock and he would've sacrificed himself at the pool had it meant that Sherlock got to live. But in turned out that, in the end, the only person John needed to protect Sherlock from was himself.  
  
He hadn't believed a single word that Sherlock had told him on that rooftop. He refused to believe that Sherlock was a fake. He had seen his brilliant mind at work on every crime scene, every case, every day. Which was why it had angered him so much when people had started believing the lies that Moriarty was spinning. But it had been relatively simple after Sherlock's death to prove that he had been innocent. Weeks and weeks spent interrogating anyone who had ever spoken to Sherlock finally proved that he had not orchestrated any of the crimes he had solved. Alibi after alibi surfaced and the Yard had been forced to acknowledge the fact that Sherlock had been on their side all along. A more thorough investigation into Richard Brook had shown that no one had actually ever heard of him and while this had by no means cleared Sherlock's name with the press it had cleared his name with Scotland Yard, though that was the least of his problems now.  
  
John thought back to the last day he had spent with Sherlock. They'd been on the run, hiding from Lestrade and his team with Molly's help, though he was certain that if Lestrade had really wanted to find them he probably would have been able to. Sherlock had taken every chance to push John away, determined to work through the 'final problem' alone. John still didn't understand what had happened on that rooftop. Moriarty had killed himself so there should have been no reason for Sherlock to jump. With Moriarty gone they would've had the chance to clear Sherlock's name. He would have gotten his life back and everything would go back to normal- as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes could be. But Sherlock had jumped, spending his last breaths trying to convince John that he was a fake. Maybe he thought that if John believed him it would somehow make it easier to grieve, but he had been wrong. John had been angry at himself for not being able to help Sherlock, for not being able to talk him down. Sherlock was his best friend and he hadn't been able to pull him back from the edge. What kind of friend did that make him?  
  
If only Sherlock had told him more, if only Sherlock had let him help, _if only, if only, if only..._  
  
Images of Sherlock on the rooftop surfaced in his mind and he shut his eyes tightly. He ran a hand over his face and opened them again. Finding that the image that greeted him was that of his own opened door and not his friend's pale and lifeless body on the floor he made his way to the kitchen and took out a bottle of whisky he had put away for a special occasion. He didn't relish the idea of drinking alone tonight but Lestrade was busy and no one else would understand what today meant, or what it was doing to him.  
  
Sherlock had always kept things from his own life private, but John had finally found out when his birthday was and had made a point to remember so that they could both celebrate it quietly the next year, knowing that Sherlock would be opposed to any large gatherings. They had even made plans for what they were going to do. And now here he was a year later, celebrating all by himself.  
  
 _John had come home to discover a birthday card from Molly hidden amongst the mail. He knew it wasn't his birthday so the card must be for Sherlock, but curiosity got the better of him and he opened it. It was dated January 6th, over a week ago. After that he had asked Sherlock why he didn't tell him it had been his birthday to which the detective replied, 'It never came up'. From then on they had both thrown remarks back and forth, John complaining that Sherlock never told him anything about himself and Sherlock insisting that John knew everything of import, which definitely did not include his birthday._  
  
 _"But it's your birthday, Sherlock! I don't care if you like it or not but we are celebrating next year." John shouted from the kitchen where he was plating up lunch for himself, seeing as Sherlock still refused to eat during a case._  
  
 _"It's a pointless celebration, John. I haven't done anything on my birthday in years, I'm not about to start now."_  
  
 _"Well, you've got me now so you better get used to the idea."_  
  
 _"Birthday parties are dull."_  
  
 _John came back into the living room and sat down ready to eat his lunch. Sherlock was still lounging on the sofa, waiting until he could get back to his experiment. "When was the last time you actually had a birthday party?" he asked._  
  
 _"When I was fourteen. Mummy insisted, but I detested all the boys at school and never wanted to invite anyone," he replied in a bored tone, "I think the one who got the most out of my birthday parties was Mycroft."_  
  
 _John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Mycroft?"_  
  
 _"There was cake." And with that Sherlock got up and walked over to the kitchen where a particularly unpleasant experiment had been located all day. It was then that John had a brilliant idea, one which he hoped would convince Sherlock to celebrate his birthday in some way._  
  
 _"Sherlock," he called out tentatively, "what if I told you that I'd let you do whatever experiments you wanted on your birthday?"_  
  
 _As soon as the words left his mouth Sherlock quickly turned around, an expression of sheer delight on his face. "Really?"_  
  
 _John couldn't help but smile at how happy Sherlock was. He loved his experiments, but there was only so much John would let him do in the flat, and now he had a free pass to do whatever he wanted. "Really," he confirmed, and Sherlock beamed at him and trotted off to the kitchen._  
  
The memory suffocated him and he took a swig straight from the bottle, not even bothering to pour himself a proper drink. After taking a few more angry sips he wiped the tears from his eyes- when had he started crying? - and walked over to the mantel where the skull was placed. He took out the packet of cigarettes he had hidden there for Sherlock, took one out and brought it to his lips. He didn't condone smoking, much less when Sherlock did it, but there were times when smoking a cigarette was a preferable outcome to what Sherlock Holmes would otherwise to do himself.  
  
Even though John wasn't a smoker he had tried it before. He walked over to the kitchen, used a match to light up the cigarette and took a long drag, filling his lungs, and then finally blowing the smoke out. He was accustomed to the feeling, but he didn't do it now out of pleasure, but rather as a comfort. It was his own, albeit extremely unhealthy, way to feel close to Sherlock again. They no longer solved crimes, he no longer blogged about it and Sherlock definitely no longer forgot his pants.  
  
He sat down on his chair and looked longingly at the one across from it. He felt his heart clench at the thought that it would never be filled again. There would be no more dashing off at a moment's notice, no more experiments in the fridge and no more violin playing at night when he was trying to sleep; there was just silence. He continued to smoke, attempting to blow smoke rings as he had sometimes seen Sherlock do. Once he'd finished it he stubbed it out on the ashtray that Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace.  
  
The flat was teeming with memories of Sherlock. The bullet holes he'd shot into the wall when he was bored, the marks on the table, the case files that would never be reviewed... John felt overwhelmed by the memories once again and reached for the bottle only to realize he had left it in the kitchen. He got up and retrieved it before collapsing on his chair again. He had drunk more than he originally thought but the deep sadness he felt today engulfed him and he continued to drink. He felt like there was a hole in his chest; a Sherlock sized hole and there was nothing that could fill it. He clutched his Union Jack pillow, and he drank, and he cried, and he remembered.  
  
He remembered meeting Sherlock for the first time at St. Bart's. He remembered dinner at Angelo's and his poor attempt at concealing his interest for the detective. He remembered running after a cab, his psychosomatic limp long forgotten, and he remembered laughing like he hadn't laughed in a very long time.  
  
He remember Sherlock involving him in the investigations from the beginning. Astonishing him with his deductions and his brilliant mind. Surprising him with his lack of knowledge of anything he deemed superfluous or simply dull. Worrying him with his self-destructive behaviour.  
  
Hiding the cigarettes from Sherlock. Playing Cluedo to distract him. Calculating strategies with Mycroft. Searching Sherlock's room for drugs.  
  
Caring for him. Looking after him. Watching him.  
  
Watching him on the roof of St. Bart's. Listening to his broken voice. Trying to stop him. Failing to stop him.  
  
 _Failing_  
  
 _Failing_  
  
 _Falling_  
  
He was so helpless, so useless. He couldn't stop Harry from drinking. He couldn't stop Sherlock from dying. And now he couldn't stop himself from falling apart.  
  
It was then that John realized his eyes were closed. He slowly opened them and noted that the bottle of whisky was gone. A quick look around the room showed him that the currently half empty bottle was on the floor next to his chair, almost as if someone had pried it out of his hands and placed it there. He threw his head back on the chair and took a deep breath. What he heard next made his blood run cold.  
  
"Hello, John," a deep baritone voice echoed in his ears.  
  
This wasn't possible; Sherlock was dead. He couldn't be here. But as John looked up he spotted the detective standing in the middle of their living room. He was wearing his purple shirt underneath his suit jacket and his long Belstaff coat with his blue scarf wrapped around his neck. The familiar sight snapped John into action.  
  
John stood up on shaky legs and started waking towards Sherlock. "You're here," he whispered, in a wistful tone.  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock remarked.  
  
"How is that possible? I saw you jump. You were dead, I saw you!"  
  
"You saw but you did not observe." A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Think, John, think."  
  
"I..." John stuttered, "I missed you so much." He felt himself taking slow steps forward until he reached Sherlock. All the while his mind was shouting at him, _he's alive, he's here, he's real_. Sherlock was looking strangely uncertain but John wrapped his arms around the detective anyway, capturing him in a long overdue hug, and soon he felt him return the pressure. He had no idea how much time had passed but he didn't care. Neither one of them was willing to let go now that they were together again. John felt his chest fill up with joy. In the warmth of the embrace he started to feel the alcohol tugging him into unconsciousness. He felt himself drifting off in the arms of the detective, and he thought he heard Sherlock whisper something, just three little words, but in his haze he couldn't make out what they were.  
  
Darkness surrounded him and he felt the comforting presence of the chair beneath him again and the warmth of something soft being carefully folded into his hands. Seconds later, or what he judged to be seconds later, he heard his name being called. He felt a warm pressure on his shoulder, shaking him, calling him. Another call of his name. Louder. More insistent. He suddenly sat up, snapped back into consciousness.  
  
Lestrade was standing over him with his hand on his shoulder and wearing a concerned look on his face. "Are you alright, John?"  
  
John shot out of his chair like a maniac and raced over to where Sherlock had been standing just a few seconds ago. Had it been real, or was it all in his head? It seemed real enough to him, but he'd been holding on to Sherlock seconds ago. Where had he gone? And when did Lestrade get here? "He was here. He was right here, I saw him. I saw him, I spoke to him. Where did he go?" he shouted at Lestrade, who was looking more and more confused by the second. "He was right here."  
  
"Who, John?" Lestrade asked, "Who are you talking about?"  
  
"Sherlock!" John shouted again, "Sherlock was right here, I saw him. He was back, he was alive."  
  
Lestrade looked John in the eye and in a soft voice said, "John, Sherlock's gone, you know that. You were just dreaming."  
  
"No, no. I saw him!" John shook his had briskly. "He was right here. I know he was! He was back. He came back for me." His voice trailed off, getting lower and lower as he sank to the floor. Lestrade quickly grabbed John by the shoulders before he collapsed and then something unexpected happened. John buried his head in Lestrade's chest and cried. His body slumped, all energy gone, all self-control dissolved. He cried and he cried, not being able to hold anything in anymore, until he had nothing left inside him. He whispered Sherlock's name over and over again and Lestrade held on to him, trying to keep him from falling apart completely.  
  
After John calmed down Lestrade helped him over to the sofa and lay him down on his side, covering him with a blanket. He tried to disentangle Sherlock's scarf from John's hands where he'd been clutching it tightly but John wouldn't let go. He was holding on to it as if his life depended on it and he kept whispering, "I'll be back. I'll be back."  
  
"Go to sleep, John," he said quietly.  
  
He'd intended on making it over here earlier but had been working late at the Yard going over some paperwork. He knew today would be rough for John but he hadn't expected anything like this. John had been adamant that he'd seen Sherlock, but that was impossible. Lestrade spotted the half empty bottle on the floor. Sighing he turned around, ready to head out again. He had to talk to John about what happened, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Now there was nothing else he could do for his friend. Looking back at John one last time he quietly left the flat, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up the next morning with a pounding in his head. He closed his eyes against the light shining in through the windows and stretched as far as he could manage, trying to work the kinks out of his muscles. He decided that staying on the sofa quietly for a few more minutes was his best course of action, and as he lay there he tried to make sense of what happened last night. Not surprisingly he didn't remember much. He remembered coming home and grabbing a bottle of whisky. He remembered smoking a cigarette and drinking and very vaguely remembered seeing Lestrade. Aside from that everything was a haze of alcohol and sadness, but then it was unlikely much else had happened anyway.  
  
He knew Sherlock's birthday was going to be tough but he didn't expect to have drunk himself into oblivion. But then there were so many memories, it was no surprise that was what it took nowadays to get him through the rough nights. He would spent nearly every night thrashing in his sleep. There were the odd nights when he was so exhausted that he actually managed a peaceful night's sleep, but those were rare occurrences. Every other night his dreams were filled with blood and loss. They alternated between Afghanistan and Sherlock's death, but the worse nights were when the two would morph together and he would find himself trying to save Sherlock in the middle of a desert. He never once succeeded and instead was forced to relive the moment of his friend's death over and over again, looking down at Sherlock as he took his last breaths and whispered, _"Goodbye, John."_  
  
He shook his head attempting to clear those thoughts from his mind and stood up, momentarily forgetting his hangover, and swayed slightly. Sitting back down on the sofa he took a minute to steady himself. He put his head down against his chest and tried to control his breathing. It was at this point that he spotted something made out of blue material lying on the floor and he reached out his hand to grab it. Just as he realized what it was memories from last night assaulted him and a single thought reverberated in his mind. Sherlock was alive!  
  
He felt his breathing becoming more and more accelerated until he was sure he really was hyperventilating. He put his head between his knees and attempted to calm himself down and tried to take deep breaths. After a while he felt his breathing return to a more acceptable rate and tried to get his thoughts in order. Sherlock was alive. John had seen him. John had hugged him.  
  
John had to find him.  
  
He carried out his morning routine quickly and efficiently. A military efficiency brought out by finally having a goal in his life. Deciding that a shower would be first he made his way to the bathroom and took off him rumpled clothes. After turning the water on he jumped in the shower. The warm water cascading down his body did wonders for his aching muscles and he could feel himself relax. It calmed him somewhat and allowed him to organize his thoughts. He needed a plan of action.  
  
He figured Sherlock would have gone to Mycroft for help. It must certainly be easier to fake one's death when one's brother was practically the British government. The last time John had spoken to Mycroft was a week after Sherlock's death. He had come over to Baker Street to apologize once again for having told Moriarty everything about Sherlock. But John had been so numbed from the pain, racked with guilt at not being able to talk Sherlock down from that ledge, that he had simply ignored Mycroft until he went away.  
  
He quickly ate his breakfast and took some Paracetamol for his headache but before he stepped out of the flat he heard his phone go off. He took it out of his pocket and looked down at the screen. Lestrade. He had seen the state John was in last night, no wonder he was calling. He accepted the call and held the phone to his ear as he stepped out of the flat and locked the door behind him.  
  
"Hey, Lestrade," he answered.  
  
 _"Hello, John,"_ Lestrade replied on the other end. _"I just wanted to check on you, you seemed a bit out of it last night."_  
  
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I just..." he cleared his throat, trying to hide his embarrassment over what happened the previous night. "It was a tough day. And hmm, thank you for checking up on me."  
  
 _"No problem."_ Lestrade hesitated slightly, unsure of whether or not it was a good idea to continue his line of questioning over the phone. _"I know it was a tough day, I'm just worried about you, John. The way you were talking about Sherlock last night, I don't know if that was just the alcohol."_  
  
"It wasn't, Lestrade. He's back and I'm going to find him now." He heard Lestrade sigh on the other end and interrupted him before he could say anything. "Look, I know what it sounds like, I really do. Just give me today. I will find him and then you'll see that I'm right."  
  
 _"John..."_  
  
"Just one day, Lestrade. Please," he pleaded.  
  
 _"Fine. One day. If you need any help just call and I'll do what I can."_ After a short pause he continued, curiosity getting the better of him. _"What makes you say he's back?"_  
  
John grinned, knowing that Lestrade would give in. "His scarf," he replied, and then hung up.  
  
Whilst on the phone with Lestrade he had managed to get into a cab and told the cabbie to take him to the Diogenes Club. It was the only place he knew he might find Mycroft and he was hoping he would be there today because John couldn't spend another day away from Sherlock knowing that his friend was alive. All the months he spent alone, trying to get used to living in an empty flat with memories of Sherlock everywhere had been excruciating, but he couldn't bear to move away. He had spent the first week after Sherlock's death with Harry- Mycroft had come by when he returned- but soon the interrogations at Scotland Yard had started and he wanted to go home again. It seemed he always found an excuse not to move away and soon he resigned himself to the fact that he just couldn't because it would be accepting Sherlock's absence, the fact that he was never coming back again, and he couldn't do that to himself.  
  
He finally arrived at his destination and after taking a deep breath to steady himself for the conversation he was about to have he walked in and was unsurprised when he was lead directly to Mycroft's office. On the way there his thoughts kept reverting back to Sherlock and his little escapade last night. He wished Sherlock had stayed. That way he wouldn't have to go looking for him today and lose more time that they could be spending together.  
  
A call of his name snapped him out of his thoughts. Mycroft was standing inside his office with the door open, wearing his usual three piece suit and politely disdainful smile. "What can I do for you, John?" he asked, signalling for John to join him in the room.  
  
John slowly walked in, military tread in place, trying to keep his emotions in check. Ignoring Mycroft's offer to sit down he chose instead to stand in front of the desk where Mycroft had positioned himself. Before he had a chance to comment on the unexpected visit John decided to cut right down to business. "Where is he?"  
  
Mycroft shifted slightly, though whether he was taken by surprise at the abruptness of the question or the question itself John couldn't tell. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."  
  
"Don't play games with me, Mycroft," he snapped, "He showed up and then left just as quickly and I want to know where the hell he is."  
  
Mycroft's eyes snapped up at John's declaration. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again without saying anything. This struck John as odd as he'd never seen Mycroft hesitant about anything before. His personal query was answered at Mycroft's next words. "He's really alive then. I wasn't sure," he mused, more to himself than to John.  
  
John hesitated, not sure how to proceed. He'd assumed Mycroft knew; how could he not? But it seemed he was mistaken.  
  
"How can _you_ not know?" he shouted and started pacing the length of the room trying to quell his rising panic. If Mycroft didn't know where Sherlock was then it was going to be next to impossible to find him again, not if he didn't want to be found. And given his abrupt departure the night before it seemed he wasn't very preoccupied with John's state of mind after seeing his apparently dead flatmate standing in the middle of the living room.  
  
John ceased his pacing as he realized someone had been calling his name. His head snapped up and he looked at Mycroft who was wearing an expression of concern on his face and approaching John in a defensive manner. It was only then that John realized how he must look, pacing up and down the office talking about his dead flatmate.  
  
"John," Mycroft called out, trying to get the man's attention again, "tell me everything that happened."  
  
  
John dutifully recalled the events of the previous night to Mycroft, who promised he would look into Sherlock's mysterious disappearance. Now that Mycroft was involved John was slightly more relived, but still left the Diogenes Club in search of his friend. He spent all morning and afternoon searching, looking everywhere the detective might take refuge, even in some of the more unlikely places where he might be recognized, but he couldn't find him anywhere. Not even a trace. This discovery- or lack there of- didn't entirely surprise him. He assumed that if Sherlock didn't want to be found it was unlikely anyone would be able to track him down, but he was hoping that he had left some sort of clue for John to follow. He had come to him after all, surely he couldn't have assumed John was so drunk that he would forget the encounter completely. In his frantic state John didn't think to look for the detective in the place he'd always been, and would always come back to.  
  
Even though John hadn't found Sherlock he decided to return home. He arrived back at Baker Street late at night after going out for dinner by himself. He didn't feel like cooking- didn't feel like doing much of anything- but he needed to eat something seeing as the only real meal he'd had all day had been his quick breakfast.  
  
He walked slowly up the stairs to his room, supporting himself on the banister. He was completely exhausted. He'd certainly missed running around London with Sherlock, but running around London after a Sherlock who clearly didn't want to be found and without being able to actually ask anyone if they'd seen the detective on account of him being dead and all had drained all the energy out of him. At least the exhaustion would keep the nightmares away. But when John finally entered his room he realized he might be facing a different problem altogether.  
  
Currently sprawled across his bed, hidden almost entirely by the blankets he had draped over himself, was Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

John was frozen in place, shock completely overtaking his body at the view in front of him. He had never even entertained the possibility that Sherlock might have come back to Baker Street. He assumed he would have been hiding out somewhere, but he never thought Sherlock would come back home. He'd spent the entire day roaming around London looking for him, ready to confront him about everything that had happened that dreadful day, but now that he was here John didn't know what to do. His best friend was asleep on his bed and the only thing going through John's mind right now was an overwhelming urge to join him. To just lay in bed with Sherlock, to convince himself that he really was here and that this wasn't just another dream.  
  
It wasn't an entirely new feeling. This kind of thing had happened before, but this time it felt different. Whenever Sherlock would act particularly reckless on a case and get himself injured John would always take care of him at home and Sherlock would often end up falling asleep on the nearest comfortable surface which sometimes happened to be John's bed. Those nights John would stay up and watch Sherlock for a few moments, making sure his friend was still alive and fighting the urge to run his hands through the detective's curls in a rare show affection which Sherlock would surely despise. This time, however, John didn't think that would be enough. He needed to reassure himself of his friend's presence, needed to feel Sherlock's pulse beneath his fingers as definite proof that he was really there, and really alive.  
  
There were times when he wondered if his feelings for Sherlock weren't entirely platonic. Surely seeing his friend alive and well should be enough reassurance without him feeling the need to touch him. But he felt so protective of Sherlock, he cared so deeply for him, that he needed more now. More than just the occasional brush of hands as he handed him his tea, more than the controlled doctor's touch he used when treating him, he just needed more but he wasn't sure if Sherlock was ready for any of that. He'd said before that he didn't want to be in a relationship and it was extremely unlikely that he returned John's feelings, but after everything they had been through John had to at least try.  
  
He took his shoes and jacket off and placed them on the floor, then walked towards the bed and settled himself slowly next to the detective, trying not to wake him up. He maneuvered himself so that he was also beneath the blanket but not quite touching Sherlock. This would just have to do for now. In the morning they would talk about everything left unsaid. Sherlock owed him an explanation and John owed it to himself to try and work out the complicated mess of feelings he felt for his friend.  
  
Preoccupied with his own inner turmoil, John didn't notice Sherlock shifting in bed. He'd been stirring slightly for the last few minutes, just before John arrived, after having spent most of the afternoon hiding out in John's bedroom waiting for him in fear that Mrs Hudson would come up to the flat looking for John and find him instead. When he arrived the first thing he did was lay down on John's bed. After spending months away from his friend and their home he was feeling lonely and couldn't wait until John came home so that they could finally see each other again. But John had been out all day and Sherlock couldn't resist the pull of sleep as the exhaustion of the last few months finally caught up to him and he slumped down on the bed. As soon as his head hit the pillow he felt John's lingering scent- not something most people would pick up on, but then he wasn't most people- and he fell asleep at once.  
  
He couldn't deny that over the year and a half he had spent living with John they had each come to rely on each other which made him feel even guiltier about his actions, regardless of their necessity. But he was back now and he was going to make amends. No matter how hard he found it was to talk about his feelings he knew he had to. He had to explain to John why he jumped off that rooftop, why he couldn't come until now and why he had finally chosen to return, but that conversation could wait until tomorrow.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes slightly and the first thing he saw was John laying on his side facing him, his hand outstretched towards the detective. John's eyes bore into him with a fierce intensity, as if John was afraid that Sherlock would disappear if he looked away. In that moment his thoughts took an unexpected turn. He could very easily get used to waking up to this everyday. He'd never felt as close to someone as he did to John and the realization that maybe what he felt for his flatmate was more than friendship had been creeping up on him for a few months before his suicide. And now was the time to act on those feelings, to take a leap of faith and show John how he truly felt.  
  
He reached his hand out to John's and interlaced their fingers, giving John's hand a brief squeeze of reassurance. John was finally here with him and everything was going to be fine. He had his reputation to build back up, he owed a lot of explanations, but right now all he could think about was John. Everything else, all the worries and all the pain and all the memories of the last few months fell away now that he was here. He closed his eyes, engulfing himself in John's presence. As he mused on how comfortable and at home he felt like this he wondered if John felt the same way. He hadn't pushed away yet but would he be uncomfortable with their current predicament? He felt John hold him closer, his arm now wrapped firmly around Sherlock in an embrace, answering the detective's unspoken question.  
  
Breathing a sigh of relief for being allowed to stay like this he relaxed into the embrace. He never thought he'd want this, being this close to someone both physically and emotionally had never been appealing to him. But John had come along and changed so much of him.  
  
He looked up to find John staring at him with an intent look on his face again. When he saw the detective looking back his face split in a wide smile of pure happiness. "You're back," he said.  
  
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why must you insist on stating the obvious, John?"  
  
John couldn't prevent a chuckle from escaping. He was so relieved to have Sherlock back, to have him alive in his arms and to hear him talk in his usual gruff and slightly irritated tone that he didn't even care what he was saying. After a few seconds of silence he became serious once again. "I'm glad you're back," he whispered as he gently lay a kiss on the detective's forehead.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes as soon as he felt John's lips on him and reveled in the touch. It had been years since he allowed anyone to comfort him, but after all the lonely, miserable months he spent away from John he allowed himself to accept the sentiment rather than push away.  
  
"Me too, John. Me too," he replied as he snuggled closer to the doctor and wrapped his arms even more tightly around him.  
  
They both settled back down on their respective pillows. Sherlock's pillow now being John's chest, and held each other close, neither one willing or capable to let go. The last thing John felt before drifting off into a peaceful sleep as Sherlock rubbing small circles on his back.  
  
  
John woke up, as usual, to the sound of morning London. He heard sirens and car horns in the distance and realized that morning had come and he still had Sherlock Holmes in his arms. A feeling of overwhelming happiness engulfed him and he smiled broadly to himself, but faithful to his ever restless nature driven by his curiosity he started shifting in bed with excitement of what today would bring. He would finally find out what had happened all those months ago,and what finally brought Sherlock back to him. If he was honest with himself he was more nervous than excited for the discovery, but after he had all the facts they could finally start building their life back up again. John was taking the fact that Sherlock hadn't run off again last night when John joined him in bed as a sign that maybe Sherlock felt something for him as well.  
  
Sherlock being a light sleeper started shifting in bed. He moved upwards until his head rested on John's shoulder and the doctor started running his hands through the detective's curls. He felt Sherlock sighing against him. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation travel through his body. He felt calmer now that John was around. Somehow everything felt better when he was with John, which was why the last few months had been so hard for him to bear. John hadn't been the only one suffering.  
  
"You're still here," John mused out loud.  
  
Sherlock looked up, surprised at John's observation. Of course he was still here. John was here, so of course he was here as well. "Where else would I be?"  
  
"I don't know," John shrugged, "where have you been for the past seven months?" His response was sharper than he had anticipated, but it had to come out sooner or later. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't close up like he usually did when they were discussing anything that didn't pertain to a case because they needed to talk about this.John needed to know, for his own peace of mind.  
  
"I was away," Sherlock said hesitantly, "taking case of Moriarty's network."  
  
"What do you mean taking care?" John asked, though he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat and took a deep breath before replying. The conversation had barely started and he was already having a hard time continuing it, but John needed to know, and he needed to talk about it. "They were after you," he said, "Before I hmm... before I jumped, Moriarty threatened you. I had to bring them all in."  
  
John knew there must have been a good reason for what he did, but he never thought it would be something like this. "He threatened me?" he gaped.  
  
"You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."  
  
John just continued gaping, he couldn't believe Sherlock had sacrificed himself for them, for his friend. John knew that he cared for them, but he never knew how far he was willing to go to protect them. "So you jumped to protect us." He felt Sherlock nod against him and continued. "But you survived... how did you survive, Sherlock? I saw you jump, I saw your blood on the pavement, I took your pulse. You didn't have one!" he yelled.  
  
Sherlock waited a few seconds before replying, knowing that John needed some time to reign his feelings in. He felt John's breathing slow down after his slight outburst and continued his explanation. He explained everything that happened that day; the fake phone call to lead John away, what happened on the rooftop with Moriarty, how hard lying on that final phone call had been and finally how he managed to jump from that rooftop without harming himself too much. He kept telling John that he had to make it believable, otherwise Moriarty's men would know he was alive and they would come after John, they would come after everyone.  
  
After he finished recalling the events he looked up at John with a sad look in his eyes. "I know this isn't much comfort, but I did it for you, John. I did it for my friends. And I tried to tell you as much as I could, I told you it was a magic trick." John's eyes widened at Sherlock's confession. He thought back to that dreadful phone call; he still remembered everything that Sherlock had told him, like the words had been permanently seared into his brain. _"It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."_  
  
"It wasn't enough, I know," Sherlock continued, "But it was the best I could do under the circumstances, and I'm sorry about everything I put you through, John. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't mean for any of this to happen but I didn't have another choice..."  
  
As Sherlock continued talking John felt a growing sense of affection for the detective. After everything they had been through already he never ceased to amaze him with how human he really was, how much he truly cared and how afraid he was to show it. John needed to show him that there was nothing to be afraid of; caring for other people was normal, sacrificing yourself for other people was admirable. In one of those rare shows of affection and his own leap of faith John pushed Sherlock carefully off of him and turned the detective so that they were facing each other.  
  
They both sat there, frozen, staring intently into one another's eyes while John held Sherlock by the arms. He briefly wondered if they were moving too quickly before thinking back to all the time they spent apart and the slow build up of their relationship. He'd waited long enough. John hesitated only slightly before leaning forwards and kissing Sherlock right on the lips, effectively shutting him up. Much like John, Sherlock hesitated only for a moment before returning the kiss.  
  
They slowly pulled apart and Sherlock looked at John before quietly asking, "Does this mean you forgive me?"  
  
The insecurity in Sherlock's voice pulled at John's heartstrings. He'd been angry at first, when he realized the deception of Sherlock's so called suicide, but even so, how could he be angry at him after everything he'd done? After everything he'd sacrificed and the time he'd spent away from everyone, roaming the world alone looking for Moriarty's men to keep them safe. He couldn't be angry at him. It was never something he'd been good at before either. He'd been frustrated a lot, that was a certainty, but not angry. And not now, now that he knew what had happened. Now that he understood.  
  
"Of course I forgive you, you idiot."  
  
They both lay side by side now, John's hands reaching out to Sherlock and tracing every part of his body he could reach as they continued reveling in their new found intimacy. Sherlock cupped John's face and brought them together in another kiss. This was deeper, longer and more passionate than the last.  
  
Eventually John pulled away from Sherlock. Their breathing was rapid, their faces were flushed and their lips were swollen from the passionate kisses but they both had smiles on their faces. And right then, in that moment, they didn't need anything else in the world to be happy.


	4. Chapter 4

It came as a big surprise to John to find out that Sherlock was a snuggler. He'd never given much thought to the subject but he after waking up this morning he assumed that Sherlock would be gone. The detective had always been unable to stay still for very long, unless he was thinking, and became bored and restless between cases, but it seemed he was more than happy to spend his time in bed with John.  
  
"Sherlock," John said, as he pushed the detective off him for the third time, "I really think we should get up now."  
  
"Why?" Sherlock questioned between kisses, "Are you not enjoying this, doctor?"  
  
John shivered a little; he was enjoying it, he most definitely was, and that was his fear. That he would enjoy it too much, that they would both enjoy it too much and end up doing something that they probably shouldn't be doing quite just yet. Sherlock had only just come back and already they couldn't let go of one another.  
  
"I am enjoying it, Sherlock, believe me, I am." _Maybe even a bit too much_ he thought to himself as he pushed Sherlock off him yet again. This time however, Sherlock didn't lunge at him again but instead remained seated with a confident smile on his face.  
  
"I understand, John," he said smugly, "some people can only handle so much excitement. Though I was rather hoping you would have a higher threshold of endurance. I have a lot of ideas about what we could do."  
  
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, trying to decipher whether or not he was being serious, but the barely contained smile told John that he was, in fact, joking. "Is that a challenge?" John asked, slowly advancing towards Sherlock.  
  
He saw the detective swallow nervously- now that the tables were turned he wasn't quite as confident- but he didn't seem to object to John's advances. He crawled to where Sherlock was seated in the middle of the bed and tenderly lay him down with his head on the pillow. He then went on to remove the detective's trousers, seeing as his shirt had been previously discarded, and looked up at Sherlock before determining whether or not he should remove anything else.  
  
The detective nodded encouragingly and John continued to remove his clothing until he was lying utterly naked and completely at John's mercy.  
  
John never thought he would see Sherlock like this, so pliant, so submissive, but John seemed to have that effect on him. When John was around Sherlock was always a little more careful with his words- a little more human- if only because John would call him out on it, but this was completely different. This was Sherlock Holmes completely bare, stripped of his usual defences. Everything was out in the open for John to see. The wanton desire, the pleasure, the need.  
  
Sherlock spent the next half an hour biting into a pillow and grasping the bedsheets as he tried to control the moans and groans that threatened to be pulled out of him by the sheer power of John's mouth. It seemed the doctor had taken quite a liking to a particular part of Sherlock's anatomy and he was determined to make Sherlock pay for his comment about John's endurance.  
  
John took his time, kissing and licking and sucking slowly and fervidly, bringing Sherlock to the edge and then pulling him back again, only to prolong the pleasure. It felt good seeing Sherlock so undone; the hitching in his breath, the shifting of his hips, all courtesy of John Watson. Sherlock was always so controlled, but John had finally found a way to make him let go. There was no thinking now, no cases, no deductions, just pure and unabashed pleasure flowing through the two of them.  
  
He quickened the pace and felt Sherlock gasp in pleasure. The moans, though still slightly muffled, were getting louder and louder as John pushed Sherlock to the very edge once again. Finally, Sherlock could no longer contain himself. Letting go of the sheets he grabbed the pillow and pulled it over his face muffling his moans as John brought him to the peak of excitement. As the shudders racking his body subsided and his breathing started evening out he threw the pillow to the bottom of the bed and sighed in contentment. He looked over at John who was sitting back on his heels, still positioned between Sherlock's legs, and smiled. Even though Sherlock had had these experiences before none of them compared to what he'd just had with John. Nothing and no one ever compared to John.  
  
John caught his eye and grinned broadly. "I don't think either of us have to worry about endurance, do you?"  
  
"Definitely not," Sherlock mumbled, still slightly incoherent, which just made John grin even more at having been able to do that to Sherlock.  
  
He jumped off the bed and kissed Sherlock's lips lightly before announcing that he was going to the bathroom. How many times did he dream of that mouth? How many dreams had he had about him and Sherlock doing exactly what he'd just done? He felt silly for thinking it, but it really was a dream come true, in every sense. He had Sherlock back, with none of the restrictions of before. He was Sherlock's and Sherlock was his.  
  
John walked out to the main flat, contentment written plainly on his features, until he was met with an unexpected visitor.  
  
"Lestrade!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Hello, John," Lestrade stammered out, as shocked at John but for a completely different reason, "Where uhh... where's your shirt?" he asked hesitantly.  
  
It was only then that John became conscious of how little clothing he was wearing. "It's in my room, I was just about to have a shower," he replied unconvincingly.  
  
It was clear that Lestrade wasn't convinced, but John breathed out a sigh of relief when detective inspector dropped the subject. "So, did you find Sherlock then?" he asked, a note of hope in his voice. He may have seemed sceptical on the phone but it was clear that Lestrade wanted John to be right about Sherlock being alive as much as John did.  
  
"Yes," John replied, thankful for the change of subject, "I looked for him all afternoon and when I came home I found him here, just waiting for me."  
  
Lestrade's face took on a rather strange look. Some combination between surprise, happiness and relief. "Where is he?"  
  
"He's upstairs," John replied before realizing that his state of near nakedness and the fact that he had clearly just left his room coupled with the divulgence of Sherlock's current location was rather suggestible. He wasn't ashamed of what they'd been doing, and he certainly wasn't ashamed of being with Sherlock, but he had rather hoped to have found a different way to tell Lestrade, who seemed to catch on rather quickly.  
  
"I knew you two would work things out sooner or later," he said with a smile on his face. It was clear he was happy for the two of them and John was glad for the support.  
  
"I think we've waited long enough," John replied and saw Lestrade nod his understanding. "I'll go get Sherlock, I'm sure he'll be able to explain things to you better than I am."  
  
Lestrade went to sit down in their living room while John went back upstairs to convince Sherlock to come down. When he walked into the living room Sherlock was still spread across the bed looking rather debauched. John pulled his shirt back on and adjusted his trousers to look more presentable, at the same time informing Sherlock of their visitor. After a few more pleas and threats on John's part Sherlock finally put on his clothes and went down to meet Lestrade.  
  
John had planned on staying. They had barely spoken about the time Sherlock had spent away and he wanted to know the specifics of what he had been doing, but once he realized how hard it really was to listen to it he rethought his decision.   
  
Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing everything that had happened on that dreadful day all over again. Lestrade insisting that he needed to know every little detail so that he could reinstate Sherlock, it was the only way they would be able to work together again and they all knew what Sherlock was like without his job.  
  
Sherlock told Lestrade everything he knew, everything he'd done and everything Moriarty had said. John had excused himself after making a cup of tea for everyone. He didn't want to listen to this anymore. It was too difficult and was bringing back too many bad memories. Memories he had tried to suppress in his waking hours because they were all he ever saw in his dreams- his nightmares.  
  
He left the living room, went up to his room and sat quietly on the edge of the mattress sipping his tea.  
  
While he sat in silence he finally thought about the repercussions that the last few months had on Sherlock. John had felt alone after Sherlock's 'death', but he had other people with him. Regardless how difficult their relationship had been Harry had helped him through Sherlock's absence to the best of her ability as had Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. John had pushed everyone else away, regardless of their insistence that they could help and that he needed to talk about it. His therapist had been useless, as usual, and eventually John decided that he didn't need to waste his time with her anymore. He had instead allowed other people in, not too much, but more than he usually would and after a while he had felt slightly better, but never whole. Not until Sherlock came back.  
  
But Sherlock had been cut off from everyone else. He had traveled the world, by himself, going after Moriarty's network. Hiding and running and worrying about John. After living with someone for so long the solitude must have affected him, especially when he was carrying out such a difficult task, and John's heart clenched in sympathy. It would have been easier for both of them if he could have joined Sherlock, but he'd be putting both their lives at risk in doing so.  
  
He felt an unprecedented rage well up inside him until he reminded himself that the man that was to blame for all the pain and suffering they had endured was now dead.  
  
John was so deep in thought that he didn't notice Sherlock had come into his room. He crouched down and took John's hand in his own and turned a worried look upon him. "Are you alright?"  
  
John shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine, Just hmm, drinking my tea," he said, laughing nervously and then taking a sip from his now cold beverage.  
  
"Lestrade's gone now, he's got everything he needed."  
  
John nodded his understanding and got up, walking downstairs towards the kitchen. Sherlock sat down in his chair in his usual thinking pose, his hands steepled underneath his chin.  
  
John felt his breath catch in his throat when he saw the position Sherlock was in. It was like before the fall, when Sherlock would sit in his chair thinking and deducing away. The image that John never thought he would see again was happening right before his eyes and it filled him with happiness.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock got up and made for the door, grabbing his coat on the way. "We're going out," he declared, and walked out, barely giving John time to get his own coat and follow him.  
  
Once outside John finally had time to ask. "What brought this on?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"I'm just curious as to why you want to go out all of a sudden. You don't have a case, do you?"  
  
"You know I don't, John, or I would have informed you."  
  
"Then what's going on?"  
  
Sherlock seemed reluctant to explain to John why they were going out or where they were going. Was it possible that his conversation with Lestrade had upset him enough that he needed to clear his head? Sherlock was the type to go out just to think- or not think, depending on the case- but usually he went by himself. Why would he want John here?  
  
"I just thought we could go out for dinner."  
  
John let go of his worries over Sherlock's state of mind and smiled broadly at him, finding his idea endearing, regardless of the reason behind it. "So, is this going to be out first date?"  
  
Sherlock looked slightly startled at the thought. Clearly it wasn't his original idea, but he didn't seem to mind. "I believe it is," he said as he extended his hand out to John who took it with no hesitation.  
  
They walked slowly, hand-in-hand, until they reached Angelo's where they were lead to a corner table, away from most clients, and John was glad for the privacy. Angelo, who didn't seem at all surprised to find out that Sherlock was alive, brought a candle over to their table and winked at John before leaving; this time he didn't protest.  
  
"Feels good not to have to correct people anymore," said John. There had been countless times where they had been mistaken for a couple and he'd always felt the need to correct people, not that they ever believed him.  
  
"I never did," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Why was that?" It was question John had asked himself over and over again. For someone who took every chance he got to correct people, Sherlock had never once tried to explain the fat that he and John were not actually a couple.  
  
"Maybe I wanted it to be true," Sherlock said without hesitation. He had always found John fascinating, but over the months they had spent living together, working together and getting to know each other he had grown very fond of the doctor. John was like no one else Sherlock knew. He was more intelligent than most, he accepted Sherlock for who he was and he awakened something in Sherlock that he thought long buried. A need for praise and company. Now the thought of not having John with him at all times seemed completely unacceptable.  
  
The honesty in Sherlock's voice took John by surprise and for a few seconds he was left speechless. He'd harboured feelings for Sherlock for a long time, but he never thought that the detective had done the same for him. "I never knew," he whispered quietly.  
  
"You weren't meant to."  
  
John understood exactly what he meant. John himself had tried to hide his feelings for Sherlock for a long time, but enough was enough. He had spent far too much time away from the detective, thinking he'd been lost, that they'd never see each other again and he was going to make the best of the time they had together now.  
  
After dinner they walked back to Baker Street, once again hand-in-hand, something that they could both easily get used to. It seemed so natural, that they should close the distance between them; a statement that nothing could tear them apart.  
  
When they arrived at home Sherlock decided to finally ask John something that had been on his mind all day. "Would it be acceptable for me to spend tonight with you... in your room?"  
  
John took Sherlock's hand in his own and used the other to cup the detective's face. He leaned up and closed his eyes before closing the distance between the two and bringing Sherlock's lips together with his own.  
  
After a few long seconds he broke the kiss and whispered quietly in the detective's ear. "I wouldn't have it any other way."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock spent the next week idly around the flat. His return had now been revealed to everyone, whether personally or through the large number of papers that had publicized it. He had yet to receive any clients and he was still waiting for Lestrade to get back to him about working with the Yard again which left him with nothing to do all day. The most deducing he had done pertained to John. He was so bored that everyday after John got back from work he tried to deduce what patients he had seen. It wasn't nearly as enticing as a real case would be but it served to keep any dark thoughts away. While John was at work Sherlock usually sat around the flat making an exuberant amount of tea for himself and had taken to the habit of always having one cup ready for John when he got home.  
  
Sherlock had now officially moved into John's room. It seemed logical seeing as they had spent every night together since Sherlock's return and the room upstairs provided them with more privacy. Even so, Sherlock had been curious as to what state his own room was in, and walking in one day he noticed that nothing, not a single thing, had changed at all, something he had enquired John about as soon as he had noticed it.  
  
 _"John, why are all my things still here?" Sherlock shouted from his room._  
  
 _He was met with silence and wondered if John had actually heard him when the good doctor walked into his room. "I..." he hesitated, not wanting to divulge the real reason why Sherlock's room was in the exact same state the detective had left it in, "I didn't know what to do with it at first, and then I just kept delaying it until I forgot about it, I suppose," he shrugged._  
  
 _Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. John had always been a terrible liar and regardless of how good Sherlock was at reading people he knew John well, and there was obviously a different reason for the state of his room._  
  
 _"What?" John questioned when Sherlock kept fixing him with his stare._  
  
 _"I thought the basis of a relationship was honesty, perhaps I was mistaken," Sherlock replied. He wasn't upset that John hadn't told him the truth, but his curiosity always got the better of him and even though he realized that what he said may have been slightly hurtful, implying a lack of honesty from John of all people, he knew that it was an effective way to get John to disclose information._  
  
 _John stood uncomfortably for a few seconds, Sherlock's gaze still piercing him._  
  
 _"I was waiting for you to come back," he blurted out, and left the room in a hurry._  
  
 _Sherlock was taken aback by John's reply. He knew that his friend, now partner, must have found the thought of disposing of his belongings difficult, but he always thought it would be because of the finality of it, the fact that Sherlock would never have need of his things again, but he never quite understood how hard it had been for John to accept his death, and how much he wished Sherlock was truly alive._  
  
They hadn't brought that up again, or anything relating to Sherlock's absence, since, but Sherlock knew that John had questions. There were times when they were in bed together that John noticed scars that Sherlock never had before. It was clear by the look in his eyes that he wanted to ask about them, but something held him back every time.  
  
By the second week Sherlock was absolutely climbing the walls in boredom. He needed a case! He couldn't just sit around the flat all day doing nothing, it was going to drive him crazy. John had suggested many different things Sherlock could do which mostly included reading or cleaning the flat, neither of which Sherlock seemed inclined to do.  
  
It was starting to worry him. He knew his mind needed to be occupied, but there was very little that could do that. John usually managed to distract him, but he had work and was only home late in the afternoon, cases seemed like an impossible thing now and the third option was a bit not good. He could see that John was also starting to worry, so much so that he seemed to avoid bringing up the lack of cases and was more lenient with some of the things Sherlock should do, but chose not to even though he was completely unoccupied.  
  
Sherlock had tried to start a number of different experiments, but he found that he had no interest in any of them. Without a case to apply his knowledge to the experiments seemed useless. He had tried composing again, but that was only helpful when he was trying to think, and that required a case. He had finally settled for just playing his violin at all hours. Melancholy melodies were wretched from the strings of his instrument; a reflection of his own state of mind.  
  
He even found it hard now to go to sleep. He had never had what could be called a normal sleeping pattern, staying up days on end when he was on a case, sleeping for long hours when he wasn't, but now he found it hard to go to sleep at all. His mind was racing, having nothing to concentrate on it chose instead to take everything in. Every sight, every sound and every smell that reached him. He couldn't shut his mind off, couldn't stop it twisting in on itself, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on a specific thing.  
  
On one of the rare occasions where he managed to fall asleep he was awakened in the middle of the night by a terrible nightmare. He'd had them often while he was away, but he thought he'd been able to chase them away since his return. Evidently he was mistaken. He sat up gasping in pain and holding onto his side where one of his scars was located. The phantom pain was extremely annoying. He knew perfectly well that it was healed, but his brain refused to believe it. He slowly got out of bed and as he was making his way out of the bedroom he felt John shifting. His hopes of not having woken him up were dissipated when he heard him speak.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asked, sleep evident in his voice.  
  
"Nothing," Sherlock whispered quietly, "I just need some water."  
  
John yawned and closed his eyes, laying his head back down on the pillow. "Come back soon."  
  
Sherlock exited the room and closed the door behind him. He walked cautiously down to the main flat until he reached the kitchen where he knew John had hidden the bottle of whisky he had drunk on Sherlock's birthday. He took a swig straight from the bottle and felt it burn a path down his throat. It felt good, and he finally got a glass out of the cupboard and poured himself a drink. He took shot after shot, trying to numb the pain he felt, both physical and emotional. If John knew he would probably tell Sherlock that he should talk about it, and that was one of the reasons why he didn't want to, because if anyone could get him to talk, it was John.  
  
The anxiety leftover from his nightmare wouldn't leave him and Sherlock knew he needed something stronger. Seven percent stronger his mind whispered. He chased the thought away, determined not to give in. Instead he retrieved the cigarettes John had hidden in the skull. He took one out, noticing there was one missing from the last time he had seen them. He remembered the lingering scent of cigarettes when he had visited John on his birthday; John must have smoked one that day. After lighting the cigarette he walked over to one of the windows and opened it, blowing the smoke out.  
  
He was perched on the ledge, his dressing gown slowly slipping off his shoulders, cigarette held between his fingers. For the next fifteen minutes he managed to burn his way through another three cigarettes until he heard a quiet creaking on the stairs. John was awake. He didn't bother trying to hide the cigarette he was currently smoking or the packet that was still in the pocket of his dressing gown. No doubt the scent in the room would inform John as to what he was doing.  
  
He was still looking out the window when he felt John come up behind him. The doctor wrapped his arms around the detective's waist and pressed himself closer. Sherlock took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the outside of the window ledge and throwing it out the window. He then twisted himself around, his back to the open window, and wrapped his arms tightly around John's neck. He put his head on John's shoulder.  
  
He allowed himself to be comforted by John. His presence. His arms. His strength. He could always count on John to be there when he needed him, whether he knew it himself or not.  
  
Eventually he pulled away, clearing his throat and looking at John for the first time since he had entered the room. "What are you doing here?" he asked, "You have work in the morning."  
  
"I missed you. The bed's cold without you." John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the lips. It was clear that something had upset Sherlock, but John didn't want to pressure him right now, he just wanted him to come back to bed. "Come to bed with me, I'll help you sleep."  
  
Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. "I doubt even you could help."  
  
John smiled sadly at him. It must be something bad if Sherlock didn't believe John could help him. "We'll see," he said, and kissed Sherlock again. This time the detective returned the pressure. Kiss after kiss followed the first one, Sherlock's hunger and desperation growing with each. He was clearly in need of comforting and this, this physical connection, was the only thing he would allow himself.  
  
He stepped away from the ledge and followed John up to their room.  
  
Once there John lay down on his side of the bed, Sherlock quickly following him, but instead of laying on his own side he decided instead to lay on top of John. He had removed his dressing gown which made movement much easier. He started kissing John with a passion that was unknown to him before. Each kiss was a declaration of love, of need, getting deeper and more passionate. He kissed John's lips, his neck, his chest, his stomach. He kissed every part of John he could get to until he reached John's pyjama trousers, at which point he kissed his way back up to John's lips again. It may not have been what John had in mind but it was clearly taking Sherlock's mind off whatever had been bothering him. When Sherlock reached his lips again John put his hands on the back of the detective's neck and deepened the kiss. His own tongue slipped into Sherlock's and he heard the detective moan in pleasure. The kisses became more forceful, both fighting for dominance over them, until they were both gasping in need of oxygen.  
  
"I missed you, John. I missed you so much," Sherlock managed to say between kisses.  
  
He was still on top of John, his air now messy from having John running his hands over it repeatedly. He grabbed one of John's hand with his own and pinned it over the doctor's head as they continued kissing.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock let go of John's hand and pushed himself off, trying to regain control of his breathing. John was in much the same condition but recovered more quickly. "Feeling better now?" he asked.  
  
"Much," Sherlock replied, still slightly winded, "though we should probably stop now."  
  
"I agree. We've got plenty of time for that," John said and sat up in bed. He grabbed a pillow and placed it between his legs before motioning for Sherlock to lay his head on top of it. The detective looked confused for a second but quickly followed John's instructions.  
  
As soon as his head hit the pillow he felt a wave of exhaustion travel through his body, and he only wished whatever John had planned would help him sleep.  
  
"Close your eyes and concentrate on my hands," John whispered.  
  
Sherlock hummed in understanding and soon felt a slight pressure on his temples. John's careful fingers were rubbing small circles, gently, and he had to admit that it calmed him greatly. After a while John's hands moved, and he started rubbing patterns softly around Sherlock's eyes.  
  
"Go to sleep," he heard John whisper in his ear, "I'll be here when you wake up."  
  
And so it was only a few seconds later that he felt himself being dragged under to unconsciousness. His mind finally quiet, he was able to fall asleep.  
  
  
John was glad when he woke up the next morning and saw that Sherlock was still asleep. It was clear from the previous night that something had been bothering him, and it was even clearer that he didn't want to talk about it but John had to get to the bottom of it. He was worried about Sherlock, not only because the detective had never had trouble sleeping before, but also because of how he reacted. John had come downstairs to find him drinking and smoking, both unusual behaviours for Sherlock, especially since he was adamant he had quit smoking altogether. Sherlock's addictive personality and his inability to accept help were a recipe for disaster, and it was up to John to prevent anything terrible from happening.  
  
He decided to start his morning routine seeing as nothing would be sorted until Sherlock was up and they could talk. He took his clothes out of the wardrobe and carried them down to the bathroom. After his shower he immediately got dressed and made himself some breakfast. After a quick tidy up around the flat he made two cups of tea.  
  
As he made his way upstairs he heard thrashing and muffed shouts coming from inside the room. He quickened his pace and when he opened the door he saw Sherlock thrashing in his sleep, the sheets tangled all around him. He was shouting 'let him go' over and over again and kept lashing out at an invisible assailant. Another nightmare, though clearly much worse than the one last night.  
  
John placed the mugs on the side and went over to Sherlock. It would probably be a bad idea to touch him, but he had no other choice; John needed to wake him up. He put both his hands on Sherlock's cheeks, trying to be as gentle as possible, and started calling his name out.  
  
"Sherlock! Wake up, Sherlock. Wake up, it's just a nightmare."  
  
But Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. He was still thrashing in his sleep and now ran the risk of hurting John as well as himself. Sherlock was becoming hoarse from all the shouting and the sheets were getting more and more tangled around him. Short of throwing a bucket of cold water over him John was running out of options.  
  
He grabbed Sherlock's wrists and pinned them to his side and the detective started fighting instantly, but John quickly pressed his lips against Sherlock's, hoping that the familiar sensation would help bring him out of the nightmare. After a few short seconds Sherlock stilled under him and finally managed to come back to himself. When John felt Sherlock return the pressure he let go of his wrists and slowly pulled away.  
  
"Back with me?" he asked.  
  
Sherlock blinked a couple of times before looking around, no doubt trying to reassure himself he was safe in their room. "I'm fine."  
  
John scoffed in disbelief, "Yeah, I can see that."  
  
John lingered over Sherlock for a few seconds before finally sitting down in front of the detective. He grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and held it in his own. He placed his other hand gently on Sherlock's chin and forced him to look John in the eye.  
  
"What was that all about, huh?" he asked gently. He knew it would be hard to get Sherlock to talk, but every moment that passed he was more convinced he absolutely had to. "That wasn't a normal nightmare, Sherlock, what's going on with you?"  
  
Sherlock tried to look away from John but he held his ground, softly nudging Sherlock's chin up again. "Please look at me," he pleaded.  
  
"I'm fine, I just need a minute," he said, finally looking at John, "Please."  
  
It was then that the doorbell rang and John decided to give Sherlock the time he had asked for. "I'll be right back."  
  
He went downstairs to see who was at the door and was surprised to see Mycroft. Sherlock hadn't actually visited his brother yet but the newspapers and a well-placed text by John had informed Mycroft that his brother was back at Baker Street.  
  
"Mycroft," John said, running his hand through his short hair, "how can I help you?"  
  
"I was hoping to see my brother," he said.  
  
John signalled for him to enter and they both made their way up the stairs. John was about to tell Mycroft that he wasn't sure Sherlock would be ready or willing to see him when he spotted the detective in the exact same position he had found him in last night. Sherlock had put his dressing gown back on and was once again perched on the window smoking a cigarette.  
  
"Mycroft," he exclaimed, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
Mycroft eyed the cigarette in his brother's hand critically, not wanting to say anything that might start an argument but wanting to make his displeasure known all the same. "I have a case for you, brother. Thought you might be interested."  
  
Even though Sherlock was known to loathe accepting anything from his brother he couldn't hide his excitement at the prospect of a case. He took a drag from his cigarette, not even bothering to finish it, and stubbed it out on the ashtray he had stolen from Buckingham Palace, making a show of it to Mycroft. He walked towards his brother and took the case file out of his extended hand and placed it on top of the desk.  
  
"I'll have a look at it later," he said dismissively.  
  
"Very well," Mycroft replied, as he turned around to leave the flat, but something stopped him.  
  
"Mycroft," Sherlock called out, looking at his brother, unsure of how to show his gratitude without seeming overly sentimental, "thank you," he added sincerely.  
  
Mycroft nodded his understanding before leaving the flat, hoping that his small gesture would allow his brother's life to return to normal before something went monumentally wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft's case had been a blessing. Sherlock had spent the next three days completely absorbed, carrying out experiments at all hours and spending just about all his time pouring over the details. He would take the occasional break to eat, through John's forceful reminders, but otherwise was constantly working. Even though John had been terribly busy at the surgery this week and had been unable to join Sherlock in the investigation he still received regular updates.  
  
This meant that he started his blog up again. When he first logged on since Sherlock's supposed death he had to work his way through a number of messages. He hadn't replied to many but had made a point to post something publicly about how much he appreciated the support.  
  
He still worked as a sounding board for Sherlock who always needed someone to talk to about the development of the case. The excitement in Sherlock's eyes was evident whenever he moved one step closer to solving the case. It was refreshing to see the old Sherlock back again, not the withdrawn, tired and dejected Sherlock that John had witnessed the days before.  
  
John came home later than usual on Friday and was ready for another round of brilliant deductions from Sherlock when he noticed that the detective was actually asleep on the sofa. He had his head thrown back over the edge and his hand was hanging over the side, papers spilled all over the floor where he had dropped them. It was no surprise, he had been working non-stop for the past few days, barely taking a break to eat or sleep.  
  
John approached Sherlock and shook his shoulder lightly. "Sherlock," he called out, "wake up, let's get you to bed."  
  
Surprisingly Sherlock opened his eyes immediately, and after taking in John's form sat up on the sofa balancing himself on one elbow. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and tried to stifle a yawn, unsuccessfully. "What time is it?” he asked.  
  
"It's 9 o'clock, and time for you to go to bed."  
  
It was a statement of how tired he was that he didn't contradict John.  
  
"You're home late," Sherlock said as he got up. John nudged him in the direction of the stairs but Sherlock started resisting. "Wait, wait!"  
  
John sighed in resignation, was it ever going to be this simple? "What is it now?"  
  
Sherlock turned around and kissed John softly in the lips. "I missed you." John smiled, surprised at the spontaneous show of affection. "I'll be waiting for you," Sherlock said with a wink and made his way up the stairs.  
  
John chuckled to himself, happy to see Sherlock in such a good mood. He made himself a cup of tea and then sat quietly in his chair sipping it. Today had been hectic and he'd had to stay behind well after hours to take care of some paperwork. He was tired and he just wanted to relax and not have to worry about anything for the next couple of days. After finishing his tea he placed the mug in the sink and walked up the stairs to their room.  
  
When he got there Sherlock was already asleep. He discarded his clothes and put on his pyjamas and then slipped into bed. As soon as he was lying on his side of the bed he felt Sherlock shuffle over and nudge his head against John. Even in sleep, Sherlock always sought John out of comfort. He lifted his arm up, allowing Sherlock to lay his head on John's shoulder. John then started rubbing small circles on Sherlock's back, and so they both blissfully slipped into unconsciousness.  
  
  
"I got it!" Sherlock shouted from the living room. "I solved it, John!" When he received no reply he walked over to the kitchen looking for John. He had been there just a second ago. "John, where are you?" he shouted, louder this time.  
  
"I'm in the bathroom," came a muffled reply. It was only then that Sherlock heard the tell-tale sound of the water running.  
  
He quickly fired off a text to Mycroft telling him who the culprit was and then ventured into the bathroom. It was full of steam, no doubt due to the fact that John insisted on taking scolding hot showers. Sherlock started undressing, having decided to join him.  
  
"Did you solve it then?" he heard John ask from behind the curtain.  
  
Having disposed of all his clothes Sherlock pulled the curtain back and looked at John, eyes roaming all over the doctor's body before he finally replied. "Of course I did, John. I did tell you."  
  
John chuckled; of course Sherlock would still expect him to hear him regardless of the fact that they weren't even in the same room. "Of course you did," he reiterated.  
  
"Are you going to get in then?" he asked, seeing as Sherlock was still standing outside the shower holding the curtain open.  
  
"I was just enjoying the view," Sherlock replied before stepping into the shower and closing the curtain behind him. Once inside the shower John moved over so that Sherlock was underneath the spray of hot- or in Sherlock's assessment, scolding hot- water.  
  
"So, who was it then?" John asked, once Sherlock failed to disclose who the culprit was.  
  
"The wife," Sherlock replied, as he ran his hands through his now wet hair. As he did so John started roaming his hands over Sherlock's chest and moving ever closer to the detective.  
  
"Not going to tell me anything else then?"  
  
"Nope, there will be time for details later. Now's the time for celebration," Sherlock said with a mischievous wink.  
  
"I like the sound of that," John said with a smile. He was just about ready to get out of the shower but there was still Sherlock to consider. "I'll help you get ready then."  
  
"How considerate of you."  
  
John poured gel over his hands, which he then placed all over Sherlock. He started at the top, massing Sherlock's shoulders for a short amount of time, then slowly moving down the detective's chest and arms. He then crouched down and started applying the shower gel to Sherlock's feet and legs.  
  
"You are a tease, aren't you?" Sherlock noted impatiently.  
  
John smirked from his position and decided to put Sherlock out of his misery. He stood up straight and started moving his hands all over Sherlock's arse and looking the detective straight in the eye. "And you love it."  
  
Sherlock swallowed visibly and his breath hitched as John moved his hands forwards, grabbing hold of Sherlock and rubbing his hands painstakingly slowly over his length. The detective threw his head back against the tiled wall as John applied is gentle touch.  
  
The water running down his front had now removed all the shower gel John had carefully applied. "I guess we're done here then," John said teasingly.  
  
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh; clearly he was expecting a bit more, but he didn't want to give his own wanton desire away. "I suppose if there's nothing else you want to do," he shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant.  
  
The words had barely left his mouth when he felt John wrap his lips around him. Sherlock couldn't stop a moan of sheer pleasure from escaping his lips. John didn't hold back, which meant that Sherlock was quickly losing his battle with self-control. He licked and sucked at Sherlock with an intensity that the detective had seldom experienced. It wasn't long until his legs could no longer support his weight and he felt them give way. He slipped down to the shower floor, thus disengaging John from him.  
  
His breath came in quick succession and he had to concentrate in order to try to bring his heart rate back to normal. John seemed similarly affected, though not as intensely as Sherlock,  
  
"What do you say we finish this upstairs? John asked.  
  
"Oh God, yes," Sherlock replied as he got up from the shower, with John's assistance, and turned off the water.  
  
They each wrapped a towel around their waist, though it was clear they were going to be discarded soon enough, and exited the bathroom. As soon as they reached their room John pushed Sherlock against the wall, effectively closing it, and attacked Sherlock's lips with ferocity. Sherlock returned the kiss with equal fervour and soon they were once again fighting for dominance over their kisses.  
  
John slipped his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth and heard the detective moan in pleasure. Sherlock opened his mouth further, allowing John better access. Their hands roamed over the other's body, every inch they could reach, until John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed. Their towels had slipped off them in their initial entrance to the room and they were now both completely naked.  
  
John climbed onto the bed and placed his knees on either side of Sherlock. He smiled down at the detective who returned the gesture enthusiastically. John then leaned down and stared licking Sherlock's neck slowly. He worked his way from one side to the other, taking special care with the detective's pulse point. Sherlock was already writhing beneath him and John had barely gotten started.  
  
"I love kissing you so much," John said as he continued to lick his way down Sherlock's neck. The detective only grunted in reply, not being able to form proper sentences through the haze of pleasure. John's hands roamed Sherlock's body once again, resting on his hips. Sherlock's own hands were moving all over John, unable to stay in one place for very long. John started biting Sherlock's neck and he felt him thrust his hips forward, effectively putting pressure in all the right places.  
  
John moaned and continued biting Sherlock, now with more intensity. Every single one of his bites was followed by a lick and a soft kiss to punctuate the pleasure and soon it wasn't enough to quench his arousal. He started moving down Sherlock's chest, taking each of his nipples into his mouth and applying the same attention.  
  
"John!" Sherlock called out breathlessly.  
  
John stopped abruptly and sat back on his heels. He heard a disgruntled whine leave Sherlock's lips and laughed. Clearly Sherlock had been enjoying it.  
  
"Don't stop!" the detective complained. But John just sat there, eyes roaming all over Sherlock. He felt a heat rising within him; not just pleasure but another sensation altogether. "John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, once John failed to move.  
  
The doctor shook his head and smiled lovingly down at Sherlock. "Absolutely nothing," he replied, "everything's perfect." He then reached across Sherlock, opened the bedside table drawer and removed something from within, which he then presented to Sherlock. "May I?"  
  
Sherlock eyed the bottle of lube critically before nodding. John opened it and applied a generous amount to his fingers. "Lay down," he told Sherlock.  
  
The detective laid his head on the pillow and smiled encouragingly at John. It wasn't the first time for either of them, but it was their first time together. It was clear that they were both a little nervous, but what was important was that they both felt comfortable.  
  
John's fingers travelled down between Sherlock's legs and he couldn't suppress a moan of pleasure when he finally entered the detective. His fingers were surrounded by warmth and heat and Sherlock. He looked at the detective, who had his eyes closed and was trying to control his breathing. "Are you okay?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock nodded, utterly unable to respond verbally, not with what John was doing to him right now. It was an exquisitely pleasurable sensation and he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that it was going to get even better.  
  
John kept moving his fingers in and out, slowly working Sherlock until he was ready. It was clear after a while that what John was doing wasn't enough and Sherlock needed more. "John," Sherlock gasped, "I need you."  
  
John slowly removed his fingers from inside Sherlock, receiving a grunt of disapproval in spite of the knowledge that they would soon be replaced with something much better. John kissed Sherlock, his lips moving slowly across the detective's, not in their usual desperate kisses, but a soft loving kiss that spoke of a deeper affection between the two. He lined himself up with Sherlock. "Ready?" he asked.  
  
Sherlock nodded and John started moving slowly.  
  
"John!" Sherlock suddenly called out and John halted his movement immediately and looked at Sherlock to make sure he was okay. What he saw was not at all what he expected. Sherlock had a glint in his eye and a smile on his face that spoke of true and unabashed affection.  
  
"I love you," Sherlock confessed.  
  
John cupped Sherlock's face with his hand and kissed him lightly. "I love you too," he replied and slowly pushed inside Sherlock.  
  
The moan that came out of Sherlock's mouth was exquisite, and John didn't think he'd ever heard such a beautiful sound. He was trying to control his breathing as he pushed slowly in and out of Sherlock, wanting to be gentle and take his time.  
  
He felt Sherlock thrust his hips in time with John's in an unspoken request for John to go faster. And so he did. He quickened the pace, slipping in and out of Sherlock with ease, each thrust bringing a wave of earth-shattering pleasure to both of them.  
  
Sherlock was gasping and writhing beneath him, his breathing was fast, his heartbeat manic and he no longer seemed to have the ability to keep his eyes open. He had his head thrown back on the pillow and was holding onto the headboard, his knuckles whitening under the pressure.  
  
John continued moving in and out, alternating between long, languid thrusts and quicker more intense ones, trying to prolong Sherlock's pleasure. A particularly well-aimed thrust had Sherlock shouted in elation. Never had he felt a sensation quite the same as that and he wanted to feel it again. Noting Sherlock's response John aimed for the exact same spot over and over again, increasing his tempo and intensity the closer he got to his release.  
  
Sherlock was now completely incoherent. The only thing he could do was moan, louder and louder, as John continued, and he tried to meet the doctor's every thrust with one of his own, which were now becoming more and more discontinuous as he lost control of his body.  
  
"John!" he cried out desperately.  
  
"Sherlock," John replied, in much the same tone. There was no need for words. Their desire was clearly expressed in their voice and their every touch.  
  
With one final burst of energy John thrust in and out of Sherlock with a passion until he felt the detective coming undone beneath him. Sherlock threw his head back even further, exposing his long neck to John who took advantage and started kissing it straight away. Sherlock's release triggered his own and they both rode out the aftershocks together, holding onto one another.  
  
Finally John slumped down on top of Sherlock, completely spent. He felt like he wouldn't be able to move his body for a good few hours, which was perfectly fine by him as he didn't intend to go anywhere.  
  
Somehow he managed to slip off Sherlock, who grunted mildly in discomfort. He then pushed himself off the detective and lay beside him reaching his hand out to Sherlock's who was still holding onto the headboard. Sherlock let go once he realized what he was doing and accepted John's hand.  
  
"That was amazing," Sherlock said breathlessly.  
  
"Fantastic," John added. "We should do that again sometime."  
  
Sherlock laughed and nodded in agreement, then reached his hand out behind John's neck and John placed it on Sherlock's chest.  
  
"I meant what I said, John, I really do love you."  
  
"I know," John replied with a smile, "I love you too, you idiot."


	7. Chapter 7

They stayed cuddled up in bed for hours. John had fallen asleep soon after, clearly still recovering from his late nights at the surgery, but Sherlock stayed alert. He felt tired, and more than once his eyelids had drooped and he found it extremely hard to open them again, but he was determined to stay awake. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was the boy and a flash of silver. He didn't want to let those memories out, they were locked away in his mind palace, in a place far away where all the terrible memories he had not been able to delete were.  
  
He gently extricated himself from the bed and put on his dressing gown. In much the same routine he had acquired for the last few days he walked downstairs, grabbed a cigarette out of his newly purchased packet and lit it. He slumped down on the sofa, exhausted. He took a long drag out of his cigarette, arm falling over the side of the sofa in relaxation, and started blowing out smoke rings.  
  
When he heard his phone go off he jumped out of the sofa in anticipation, hoping it was Lestrade calling about a case.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.  
  
 _"It's Lestrade, are you free tomorrow?"_  
  
"Depends, what for?" Sherlock replied.  
  
 _"Got a case for you, will you come?"_ Lestrade asked, more out of courtesy than anything as they both knew Sherlock would say yes.  
  
"Of course. Text me the details," Sherlock answered in his usual brisk fashion and ended the call.  
  
It wasn't long after that he heard John walking down the stairs from their room. Luckily he'd finished his cigarette by that time- not that John wouldn't notice the smell.  
  
"John!" he shouted out.  
  
"Woah, Sherlock, stop shouting. What is it?"  
  
"I've got a case tomorrow," Sherlock said as he prepared his coffee.  
  
"And you're drinking coffee at," John looked at the time, "11pm?"  
  
"You're missing the point. I finally have a case, something to keep my mind occupied," he said. "Though you did a wonderful job earlier as well."  
  
Sherlock walked over to where John was standing, clearly still slightly disoriented, and kissed him. The abruptness took John by surprise in his sleep addled state but he felt his body respond automatically. He lifted his hands up to cup Sherlock's face and moved his lips around Sherlock. Soon after he felt Sherlock's tongue prying into his mouth and he opened up willingly. The kiss continued for a few more seconds, seconds when John's mind was completely blank. He could concentrate on nothing but the feel of Sherlock's lips on his own. John broke the kiss apart, taking a deep breath to replace the oxygen they had both failed to take in, and rested his forehead against Sherlock's, still cupping the detective's face. When he finally opened his eyes he noticed the shadows beneath Sherlock's eyes, which he had kept closed, and how much weight the detective was leaning against him.  
  
"Sherlock," John called out and Sherlock twitched and widened in eyes in attention, "when was the last time you slept through the night?"  
  
"Don't remember," Sherlock shrugged.  
  
"How long?" John insisted and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock who gave in under the scrutiny.  
  
"About a week ago," he admitted.  
  
"Is it the nightmares?" John asked in a soft voice.  
  
Sherlock only nodded. He didn't like to admit his weaknesses if he didn't have to, but he knew there was no point in lying to John.  
  
"We need to talk about this," John said, worry seeping into his tone, "You're not sleeping, you're barely eating and you're smoking more and more each day. This has to stop."  
  
Sherlock knew it was true but it was so difficult to face his nightmares, even though he knew it was the only thing that could help. Maybe something else could, he thought to himself. It was becoming harder and harder each day to ignore the pull of his addiction.  
  
"I don't know what to do," he whispered pleadingly.  
  
John felt his heart clench. This was as close as Sherlock Holmes would come to asking for help. "Come here," he said, and pulled Sherlock down to his chest, his hands cupping the back of his head. He laid a kiss atop Sherlock's head, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back slightly, forcing Sherlock to face him. "We can get through this, you and me, together. But I need you to talk to me, Sherlock. Please."  
  
Sherlock sighed in resignation. It was clear that John was not going to let this go, and maybe he could get him through this. He knew if anyone could, it was John.  
  
"Can we just talk about this tomorrow?" he asked, his voice small and childlike.  
  
"No, Sherlock," John said firmly, "I'm sorry, but we're doing this now. I won't stand by and watch you fall apart."  
  
"But..."  
  
"No buts. I love you, Sherlock, okay? I love you and I'm here for you and you have no excuse to not talk to me about this. Don't you trust me?"  
  
"Of course," Sherlock replied, shocked that John even felt the need to ask the question.  
  
"Then talk to me."  
  
Sherlock resigned himself to the fact that he had to tell John his story. "I was in France," he started, "going after one of Moriarty's men. I'd been chasing him from country to country for weeks but I kept losing him. I had to find him before he discovered I was alive and carried out his orders. He was the one assigned to take out Lestrade, and I was afraid he would go back to London to kill him, or worse, that he would reveal my secret and you and Mrs Hudson would die as well."  
  
John was listening intently to Sherlock's story, relieved that he had finally given in but worried about what he would learn.  
  
"I finally tracked him down to a small town and went to confront him. I thought it would be simple. I would find him, take him to the... agency I'd be working with, and then I'd be free to go after the rest of them, but it wasn't. I got my own room and surveyed him, learned his habits so I could go after him."  
  
Sherlock felt his hands shaking and curled them into fists. John, noticing his distress, reached out and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's fists and smiled encouragingly, urging him to continue his story.  
  
"I followed him out of the motel, even though the route he was taking was completely different, and into an alley which was conveniently away from any buildings or houses."  
  
It was as though he was reliving that day all over again. He remembered all the sights and smells of the small town, all the people he spoke to, all the places he visited, but most of all he remembered the boy, the flash of silver and the pain.  
  
 _Sherlock walked confidently up to the man, but before he could even get a word in he was suddenly grabbed from behind. Strong arms locked around his body, blocking his movements, and a knife was pressed against the small of his back._  
  
 _"Move and I will cut your spine out and leave you on the floor," he heard the man holding the knife saying just as the one in front of him turned around._  
  
 _"The great Sherlock Holmes. Found me at last, have you?"_  
  
 _"I see you brought a friend," Sherlock noted._  
  
 _"Didn't see that one coming did you?" the man said mockingly._  
  
 _Just then a boy walked past the alleyway and upon assessing the scene shouted loudly for the police. The man in front of him swore loudly and ran after the boy. Sherlock tried to use the distraction to free himself but felt the knife digging into his back painfully. It was only a small incision, not enough to injure, but enough to show Sherlock they had no qualms about killing him._  
  
 _The struggling boy was dragged into the alley right in front of Sherlock, a knife pressed against his throat. "Tut, tut, tut," said the man holding the boy, "you shouldn't meddle in other people's business."_  
  
 _"Let him go!" Sherlock said defiantly. Regardless of whether or not his own life was at risk he was not going to let an innocent life be claimed._  
  
 _"Or what, you'll kill us?" They both laughed loudly and Sherlock started feeling worried. These men were trained killers with no morals. They would not hesitate to kill them both._  
  
 _He looked over at the boy; he was shaking, eyes watering, nerves overwhelming him. He had to do something to calm him down before this all went wrong before they even had a chance to escape. "Don't cry, you're going to be fine."_  
  
 _And then the worst happened._  
  
 _He saw the boy's eyes widen in shock and a cry escaped his lips as the knife slid across his throat, colouring his clothes and the ground beneath him in red and rendering him speechless forever. Sherlock's mouth gaped open in surprise and he felt his blood run cold. Behind him he felt the man stiffen, but his grip did not slacken._  
  
 _"Your turn."_  
  
 _Sherlock felt the man behind him pull the knife away from his back, ready to take the deadly plunge. In the split second before the knife connected Sherlock whirled around in an attempt to push his attacker away before the knife reached its destination, but he was too slow. He felt white hot pain as the knife entered his body and he clutched at his side trying to staunch the blood flow. He dropped down to his knees, grip slackening, blood flowing freely from the knife wound._  
  
 _He heard voices around him screaming. Anger. Irritation. Fear. All clear in their tone, but he couldn't make out the words. No longer able to hold himself upright he dropped to the floor, face first against the ground and the darkness engulfed him._  
  
Sherlock pulled the dressing gown open to reveal the scar on his left side. For the first time John allowed himself to scrutinize it, free in the knowledge that Sherlock had no problem with him seeing it. He ran his hand over it gently, assessing the work that had been done to save Sherlock when John was unable to do so himself.  
  
"What happened after that?" he asked after Sherlock stayed quiet for a long time.  
  
"I don't remember much after I blacked out," Sherlock continued, "I just know that I was found and taken to a hospital. They questioned me, having found the boy's body, and I told them that I had found two men threatening the boy in an alley and tried to get involved. They believed me, of course, there was no one to counter my story."  
  
"What about the men?"  
  
"I tracked them down again, after I recovered, and contacted the agency. They took care of them." Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself with shaking hands, the results of too much caffeine, too little sleep and frayed nerves. "It was my fault, John. If I'd known there were two of them, if I'd paid attention, none of that would have happened."  
  
"Sherlock, this isn't your fault." John said firmly.  
  
"It is, I..."  
  
"No!" John cut him off sharply. "Listen to me. Will you listen?" Sherlock nodded. "Those men would have killed anyone who got in their way. It just happened that you were there to witness it. Regardless of what you did or what you said they couldn't let that boy walk out of there alive. He saw their faces, he was a liability. You know the kind of people Moriarty hired. They killed him and left you for dead, and no matter what you did nothing would have changed."  
  
Sherlock looked down at his hands, unable to accept John's reasoning. "I want to believe you, John, I truly do. I want to stop hearing that boy's screams, I want to stop seeing his face every time I close my eyes but I can't get him out of my head." Sherlock said desperately.  
  
"You needed to get it out, Sherlock. You needed to talk about it and from now on it'll be easier, you'll see. I'm not saying it's all magically going to go away, that's not how things work, but I'm here. I know what it's like to watch innocent lives being taken in front of you; I know what it's like to feel guilty. And it's no use. The fault should lie with those who committed these horrible acts, not with those who tried to stop them. Please believe me."  
  
"I..." Sherlock shook his head "I can't, John. I can't do this right now."  
  
"Sherlock!" John called out as Sherlock walked out of the room.  
  
He went upstairs to get dressed. He pulled his trousers and his shirt on, not bothering to put on his suit jacket. After putting on his shoes he waked down the stairs only to meet John who was blocking his way.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"Out," Sherlock replied curtly.  
  
Before he could move any further John put his hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Sherlock, tell me you're not going to do anything stupid."  
  
The detective scoffed. "What do you mean stupid?"  
  
John looked at him pointedly. "You know exactly what I mean."  
  
Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he ducked under John's outstretched arm, made his way to the kitchen and grabbed his coat. As he walking down the stairs to leave the flat he heard John running after him.  
  
"Sherlock, please stop!" John shouted. He stood in front of Sherlock trying once again to block his path.  
  
"Let me go, John."  
  
"No. You're not going anywhere like this." John replied defiantly.  
  
"Let me go!" Sherlock shouted, pushing John out of the way and walking out into the cold night air.


	8. Chapter 8

John was left standing at the door with his mouth hanging open in complete shock. He had seen Sherlock worked up before, upset, even angry, but this was different. Sherlock had been desperate. Desperate for an escape and John had been the only thing standing in the way.  
  
"John?"  
  
He turned around to find Mrs Hudson standing by her door, clearly having been woken up by the noise he and Sherlock were making. "Did we wake you up, Mrs Hudson? I'm so sorry."  
  
She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand and turned a worried eye upon him. "What's happened, John?"  
  
"It's Sherlock," he said, running a hand over his face and taking a deep breath, "we had a bit of an argument and he left. I should go after him."  
  
"Let him be, dear. I think Sherlock needs some time to think and clear his head."  
  
"No, I really should go. I don't want him to do anything... well, you know."  
  
"I do know, but if anything like that happens he's going to need you home to look after him. You won't be able to find him now, John. He'll come home to you when he's ready."  
  
John sighed in resignation and started walking up the stairs. As he was about to thank Mrs Hudson she cut him off.  
  
"Would you like some tea, dear?"  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't want to keep you up, Mrs Hudson. Don't worry about me," he replied.  
  
"Don't be silly. I'll make you a cuppa, you just relax and I'll bring it up in just a moment."  
  
John smiled down at her, "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."  
  
She came in shortly after he settled on the sofa trying to calm his nerves and resisting the urge to call Mycroft. He knew it wouldn't help if Sherlock knew he had involved his brother, but if Sherlock didn't come back soon he wouldn't have another choice.  
  
"Ta."  
  
"You're welcome, dear. Just try to get some rest, Sherlock will be back soon, I'm sure," she said reassuringly and went back down to her flat again.  
  
John decided that even though going after Sherlock would be useless, he could still text him. He needed Sherlock to know he was worried and that he wouldn't push him to talk any more if he didn't want to. Not for now anyway, it wasn't a subject they could just ignore.  
  
 **I'm sorry for making you talk, I didn't mean to upset you JW**  
  
 **Please come home, I'm worried JW**  
  
 **Sherlock, where are you? JW**  
  
 **Just tell me you're okay JW**  
  
 **I miss you JW**  
  
 **I love you JW**  
  
  
Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaking sounds he knew would most definitely wake John up. He figured John had fallen asleep once the texts had stopped. When he reached the living room he spotted John lying on the sofa asleep. It was clear he'd tried to stay up until Sherlock returned but had been unable to.  
  
His phone was on the table along with an empty mug of tea. He walked over, pulled the folded blanket from under John's feet and draped it over his sleeping form. He laid a soft kiss on John's forehead but it seemed that was enough to wake him up.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Sorry I woke you up," he said, hoping that John would just go back to sleep. But John opened his eyes fully and sat up. He eyed Sherlock critically, clearly trying to assess the state he was in. He noticed the tapping foot, the slight tremor in his hands and his dilated pupils.  
  
"What did you take?" John asked, running his hand over his face in resignation.  
  
"Cocaine," Sherlock admitted. It wasn’t exactly what he’d needed, but it was the only thing he could safely get his hands on. He knew there was no point lying to John. John always knew, and lying about it would just make him angry and even more upset than he already was.  
  
"Sherlock..." he breathed, trying to keep his anxiety at bay, "this isn't the way, you know that."  
  
Sherlock just looked down, avoiding looking John in the eye. He knew what he would see there; pity, disapproval, and worst of all disappointment.  
  
"Hey, Sherlock, look at me," John said and moved his hand under Sherlock's chin, forcing him to look up. And Sherlock was surprised, so very surprised, when he didn't see pity there. He knew. Just like he’d predicted, John knew that Sherlock couldn’t stand the pity or the disapproval or the judgement. And Sherlock knew now, looking John in the eye, that he wasn’t disappointed, he was worried. Worried about Sherlock because he cared, because he loved him. And Sherlock was so grateful that he buried his face in John’s shoulder and wrapped his arms tightly around him.  
  
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."  
  
"Shh, it's okay," John soothed, running his hands over Sherlock's curls, "I know you are. I'm not mad. Just please, _please_ , tell me if you ever want to take anything again, okay? It's all I'm asking for."  
  
"I'll try my best," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
John unwrapped himself from Sherlock and yawned. He was still tired, and he knew Sherlock must be as well. Regardless of what he'd taken he hadn't slept properly for days and that must be taking its toll on him.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I've got that case tomorrow, for Lestrade," he hesitated, "It's Sunday and I know you don't have work. Would you come with me, John? It would be most helpful to have you there."  
  
"Of course I'll be there, Sherlock. Where else would I be, you idiot?"  
  
Sherlock smiled at the term. This was exactly what he needed. He just needed his life to go back to normal, working cases with John by his side, and he would be fine. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.  
  
"C'mon, let’s go to bed. We could both use some sleep." John led him upstairs and over to their bed.  
  
They were tucked beneath the sheets, Sherlock's head resting on John's chest. "Just try to get some sleep, I'll be here if anything happens." John told him, hoping that the small reminder would be enough to keep the nightmares away for at least one night.  
  
"I know," Sherlock replied, confident in the knowledge that John would always be there to pull him back from the edge.  
  
  
Sherlock tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Another toss.  
  
"If you don't stay still you won't be able to fall asleep."  
  
"I know, but I can't stop."  
  
Another turn.  
  
"I wonder why that is."  
  
"Yes, John, I'm perfectly aware of the effects of cocaine, thank you very much."  
  
Sherlock huffed in annoyance at his own inability to go to sleep. He was exhausted but he just couldn't shut off. His mind kept whirling back and forth, taking in and deducing everything, even in the dark. He sat up suddenly, ready to get out of bed but felt John's arm reach out to him.  
  
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.  
  
"Downstairs. It's bad enough I can't sleep, you shouldn't have to be kept awake because of me."  
  
John spun Sherlock around so that they were facing each other. "What part of 'I'll be here if anything happens' did you not understand?"  
  
"I assume that's a rhetorical question."  
  
"Of course it's a bloody rhetorical question, come here," John said as he motioned for Sherlock to lay his head on John's lap.  
  
As soon as he did so he felt John run his hands soothingly through his curls. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, his eyes closing and his breath leaving him in a prolonged sigh of relaxation.  
  
John started telling him stories about Afghanistan. He told Sherlock about all the people he'd met and all the places he'd seen. He described the heat of the desert, the hours of watching, waiting for anything to happen, and then the adrenaline rush of battle. He painted a picture with his words and Sherlock found himself captivated. Concentrating on John's voice and his gentle touch he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.  
  
  
Sherlock woke up the next morning to John rubbing soothing circles on his back. His head was still on John's lap, John sitting up slightly in bed, and he wondered if the doctor had managed to sleep comfortably in that position. The truth was John hadn't slept at all. He'd been too worried about Sherlock, between the nightmares and the drugs, and had decided to keep vigil all night to make sure he was okay.  
  
"Good morning," John said, looking down at Sherlock with a smile on his face. "No nightmares tonight."  
  
Sherlock replied with a wide grin. "No nightmares," he confirmed.  
  
John bowed his head down slightly and laid a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Up you get, we have a case."  
  
Sherlock jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom where he shouted for John to join in. After their shower they dressed quickly and John made breakfast while Sherlock made tea.  
  
It was a routine they had both gotten into, and regardless of how nice it was that Sherlock had started doing things for him John was just glad that he was now able to convince the detective to eat regularly- breakfast at least. He always worried about how little Sherlock ate and slept, especially when he was working a case, and now he had one less thing to worry about.  
  
They ate sitting at their respective desks, both reading the paper. Sherlock was quiet as he read the newspaper, no doubt trying to take in any and all information that might be useful to him and storing it away.  
  
When they finished their breakfast John barely had time to put the plates and mugs away before Sherlock was shouting for him.  
  
"Are you ready, John?"  
  
"Alright, give me a minute!" John quickly slipped his jacket on and ran down the stairs to meet Sherlock who was already hailing a cab.  
  
  
Sherlock spent the short taxi ride to the crime scene recalling what little he knew about the case to John. He was itching to get to the crime scene and finally learn all he could about the case and get his mind working again. Lestrade had told him very little, just that a woman named Sylvia Jensen, recently divorced and mother of one, had been receiving threatening messages through the post. Lestrade had called Sherlock in after they cleared all the suspects off their list and the case came to a standstill.  
  
When they finally arrived Sherlock jumped out of the taxi, leaving John to pay, and walked over to Lestrade. "What do we have?"  
  
"Hello to you too, Sherlock." Sherlock rolled his eyes, he was here to work the case, not exchange pleasantries. "Sylvia Jensen, as you know," Lestrade continued, "has been receiving threatening messages for the past three weeks. Today she got a package with no return address. She figured it was from the same person so she called us in."  
  
"And you called me in," Sherlock mused. It was probably a simple enough case, but Lestrade was usually swamped so he asked for Sherlock's help. "Where's the package?"  
  
"Inside the house."  
  
It was then that John reached him and Sherlock immediately removed his coat and thrust it towards the doctor. "Hold that for me, would you?"  
  
"Pleasure," John replied sarcastically, and doubled the coat over his arm.  
  
As Sherlock was about to walk towards the house he spotted a couple arguing, a young boy hiding behind the mum. "I take it that's Sylvia Jensen," he said to Lestrade, pointing over at the couple.  
  
"Yes," Lestrade confirmed, "Sylvia, her son and her ex-husband."  
  
Suddenly the two started shouting at one another. The boy started backing away from his mother, clearly overwhelmed with the argument and all the strangers surrounding the house.  
  
"What's going on?" John asked.  
  
"A shouting match by the look of it," replied Sherlock, keeping an eye on the young boy who was now wandering aimlessly away from his parents.  
  
"Yeah, I can see that. That can't be helpful for the kid though."  
  
"Certainly not," Sherlock said as he walked towards the house, Lestrade and John already ahead of him.  
  
It was at that point that both parents seemed to realize that their child was not where they thought, and they started sweeping the scene in search of him. Sherlock was stopped by a brief second when he saw the mother's eyes widen. He quickly turned around and saw that the boy was walking towards the road where a car was coming at a considerable speed.  
  
Sherlock reacted purely out of instinct. He raced forwards towards the boy, seeing as he seemed to be the only one close enough to stand a chance of pushing him out of the way. The driver, however, seemed utterly oblivious to the situation and continued down the road.  
  
John, Lestrade and the boy's parents looked on in horror as the car continued and Sherlock raced to reach the boy.  
  
Sherlock allowed himself a brief second of relief when he heard the car brakes screeching, but his hope quickly faded when he realized the car was too close to the boy. He surged forward and only just managed to grab the boy and wrap his arms around him, offering what little protection he could, as he took on the impact of the car.


	9. Chapter 9

John stood frozen in shock, still clutching Sherlock's coat. Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor, the boy still wrapped in his arms now hanging loosely over the boy's back. Both were unmoving.  
  
He should do something. He was a doctor, he could help, but his limbs wouldn't obey him. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. All he could see was the image of Sherlock's lifeless body in front of St. Bart's. But this time there was no well thought out plan and no escape, it was all real. Sherlock had raced forwards and John had been unable to do anything but stand back and watch as he risked his own life for a chance to save the boy's, and now he might not make it.  
  
Everything they fought for, all the time they waited to be reunited was nothing but a distant memory now and all he could think about was the fact that he might never see life in Sherlock's eyes again. Might never feel the warmth of his lips on his, his hand held in his own. He might lose him all over again.  
  
He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Lestrade calling out for an ambulance. The detective inspector was running towards Sherlock and the boy, his parents following closely behind, which was when John realized that only seconds had passed since he saw Sherlock landing on the ground and heard the sickening thump as Sherlock's head impacted on the floor.  
  
He ran to Sherlock, trying to assess his injuries, only to realize that he would have to move the boy out of the way first.  
  
They all stood around the two unmoving forms, Lestrade and the boy's parents softly calling out the boy’s name, trying to wake him up. Sylvia cupped her son's cheek and called out for him as tears ran down her face. Slowly the boy's eyes opened and he called his mother's name and everyone breathed out a collective sigh of relief. Everyone but John; Sherlock was still unmoving.  
  
Gently, they pried the boy out of Sherlock’s arms and lay him across his mother. John took a few moments to assess the boy’s condition and confident that he only had a few scrapes, seeing as Sherlock had wrapped himself around the boy so completely that he had barely suffered any damage, he left the boy with his mum and both he and Lestrade turned their attention towards the detective.  
  
"Is he alright?" Lestrade asked, though it was obvious that Sherlock was most definitely not alright. But John couldn't blame him for the question.  
  
"I don't know, but I'm worried he’s still unconscious," John replied, "Be careful, don't move him." He grabbed Sherlock's coat and splayed it across him. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"  John called out. He needed to know Sherlock was going to be okay; he needed to hear his voice. "Sherlock, please, tell me you can hear me!" He sounded desperate even to his own ears, which wouldn’t help Sherlock so he took a moment to take in a lungful of air and try to calm himself down. Sherlock needed him calm and collected.  
  
John saw Sherlock's eyelids flutter and kept calling out to him, trying to give him something to pull him back to consciousness.  
  
"John?" Sherlock groaned out, confusion clear in his voice.  
  
"Oh, thank God," Lestrade breathed. It was unnerving seeing Sherlock so still.  
  
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm right here. I'm right here," John replied, as he ran a hand soothingly through Sherlock's curls.  
  
Sherlock's eyes roamed the scene before finally settling on John and narrowed in confusion again. John was getting more and more worried about the state he was in, it was clear he had a concussion, though John was unsure of the severity. He had to keep him awake and talking. "What happened?"  
  
"You saved that boy," John replied, the ghost of a smile on his face. That is until Sherlock tried to sit up and gasped in pain. His hands came up to his chest and his eyes widened in shock. He looked over at John, panic written on his expression, as he tried, and failed, to take in a deep breath. "Sherlock!" John shouted, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
  
"I can't breathe," he gasped out, still clutching his chest.  
  
"Just stay still, Sherlock. Stop moving." Sherlock lay back down, now grasping John's hand as he took shallow breaths and tried his best not to pass out. "That's it," John urged, "You're doing great, just stay with me, Sherlock." Sherlock’s grip on John’s hands lightened slightly as he finally managed to breathe a little better, though it was still painful.  
  
"Where else would I go?" John smiled softly at the detective, his panic slightly less now that Sherlock could breathe. "John?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm cold."  
  
He laid a soft kiss on the detective's forehead before turning around to Lestrade, "Where the hell is that ambulance?"  
  
"Should be here any minute now."  
  
"They need to be here now. I don't want him going into shock.”  
  
He heard Sherlock groaning in pain and looked down at the detective to see him once again clutching at his chest with his free hand. It was clear that breathing was becoming a more arduous affair as the seconds went by. John just wanted the ambulance to get there. Sherlock needed to go to the hospital, there was nothing John could do for him here except keep him awake, and he could see Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to do that for much longer and it worried him.  
  
"Just stay calm, Sherlock. The ambulance is almost here, you're going to be fine."  
  
"John, I..." Sherlock's features twisted in confusion.  
  
"Yes?" John prompted, trying to quell his rising panic. Sherlock was getting worse by the second. He was becoming more confused and his breathing was too shallow, even considering his probably broken ribs. He needed to get to the hospital now.  
  
"I..."  
  
And Sherlock passed out.  
  
"Sherlock?" John shouted, "Sherlock, talk to me. Please! Sherlock!"  
  
It was then that the ambulance thankfully arrived and Lestrade pulled John out of the way so that the paramedics could get to work. One of them started working on Sherlock and the other was checking over the boy.  
  
"No, let me help!” John pleaded, his hand outstretched towards Sherlock.  
  
"Let them do their job, John. You need to stay calm, Sherlock's going to need you."  
   
The paramedics worked quickly and efficiently and soon Sherlock was strapped down on the ambulance, ready to be taken to the hospital. Before John could say anything Lestrade had found out what hospital they were taking him to and carted John off to his car unceremoniously and followed the ambulance.  
  
Mycroft had, of course, been informed of the situation and had joined Lestrade and John at the hospital, much to John's surprise.  
  
"Any news?" he asked, as soon as he arrived.  
  
"Nothing yet," Lestrade replied, and Mycroft sat down and waited with them.  
  
He had been in the middle of a meeting when he received the news and had left as soon as he could. He always meant it when he said he worried about Sherlock. No matter how difficult or unique their relationship may be Sherlock was his brother, and he loved him. They were both rather uncomfortable with any show of sentiment, but deep down they both knew the truth, but they kept up the guise of disgruntled brothers. Mycroft was starting to think that John could see right through it, regardless of how many times he questioned Sherlock on their sibling rivalry.  
  
If he was honest with himself he knew that sooner or later Sherlock would end up in the hospital. Whether because of an injury he'd sustain while chasing a criminal, or the drugs or just simply exhaustion, but he never thought Sherlock would end up here because he saved someone else.  
  
Mycroft noticed a lot of changes in Sherlock after John came along, and especially after Sherlock came back. He was still the same old Sherlock, but he seemed more aware of the people around them. Of their feelings, of their lives, of what affected them, and even though he had always been aware of this now he seemed to tread more carefully around them. He measured his words more carefully, he kept some of his more extreme deductions to himself, all just to please John. And it pleased Mycroft too, to see his brother being so human.  
  
While Mycroft pondered Sherlock's mind, John pondered Sherlock's body. The injuries it had sustained, the ones he'd seen and the ones he couldn't. The ones that would heal and the ones that wouldn't.  
  
His mind was torn in two. The doctor part of him telling him that Sherlock was being taken care of, that he would be fine, that his injuries weren't that grave. The other part however, the helpless loved one waiting for news, was thinking up all kinds of scenarios, reliving the accident, imaging possible outcomes.  
  
It was even worse than before. When Sherlock had jumped he knew that he was dead, or so he thought. There had been no desperation for salvation, just the realization that he had lost his best friend. Now, however, he had so much more to lose. And he was desperate to help Sherlock, to be in there taking care of him, even if just holding his hand, but he knew he couldn’t. And it killed him.  
  
 _Please God, let him live._  
  
"John?"  
  
He snapped his head towards the call of his name to see Lestrade hovering over him with a cup of coffee in his hand, which he prompted John to take.  
  
"Thanks," John responded, and could see Lestrade relaxing slightly. It was the first thing he'd said in hours. He hadn't uttered a word since he had left Sherlock's side and simply sat clutching the Belstaff coat in his arms. It was clear that Lestrade was worried for both of them. For Sherlock's health and for John's state of mind. He had been one of the very few people that had seen how badly Sherlock's death had affected him and it was clear that Lestrade had a sense of dejá vu now.  
  
 As soon as they reached the waiting room the detective inspector had started pacing up and down, unable to stay still for longer than five minutes. Even Mycroft was unusually agitated, tapping his umbrella and his foot on the floor, probably to keep himself from pacing along with Lestrade.  
  
It had been hours since Sherlock had been brought it, or at least it seemed like hours. Sylvia and her son had come in at one point and asked John how Sherlock was, but he hadn’t said anything. Lestrade had told them what little they knew and after expressing her gratitude for what Sherlock had done they had both left. John only acknowledged their presence long enough to see that the young boy was fine. Sherlock had saved him. He couldn't concentrate on anything apart from the fact that he wasn't with Sherlock. That he didn't know what was going on and that he couldn't help. He could have been sitting here for just five minutes for all he knew, just staring at the wall and hoping that Sherlock would make it.  
  
Sherlock might be dead, for all he knew. Dead all over again, and this time it would take all of John with him.  
  
But this time nothing was certain, and Sherlock might still make it. Mycroft would make sure that Sherlock got the best care possible; he had that power in his hands. Anything that Sherlock needed he would get, anything to save his life. He would be fine. They would all be fine.  
  
John tried to tell himself that over and over again as he saw a tired looking doctor directing himself towards them.  
  
He was afraid, so afraid that he would bring bad news. That he was about to tell them Sherlock hadn't made it, or that he was in a coma, or that there wasn't anything they could do. John felt the sudden urge to run out of the hospital screaming, he couldn't take it if the news were bad but the uncertainty and the glimmer of hope he had kept him in place.  
  
 _He's fine, he's going to be fine. He's Sherlock Holmes, he's going to be fine_.  
  
He moved forward, clutching his coffee and Sherlock's coat like a lifeline, and turned to the doctor.  
  
"How is he?"


	10. Chapter 10

"John?"  
  
John snapped his head up instantly and looked up in expectation, hoping to see Sherlock with his eyes finally open, only to realize that the consulting detective was still asleep. John himself had fallen asleep by his bedside, hand gripping Sherlock's, head resting on his arm which was sprawled on Sherlock's bed. He twisted his head around until he saw Lestrade looming over him with a sad look in his eyes.  
  
"Still unconscious?" he asked, nodding towards Sherlock.  
  
"They had him sedated for a while, but they say he's just sleeping now. His body's trying to recover."  
  
"I'm sure he'll wake up soon, John."  
  
"Yeah," John replied half-heartedly.  
  
Lestrade felt slightly useless just hanging around, looming over their sleeping forms, but he didn't know what else to do. Sherlock had been treated for hours; a chest tube was applied, his concussion evaluated, his broken arm cast, his dislocated shoulder set, his bruises and broken ribs iced and a wide array of medication provided. There was nothing anyone could do for him right now, he just had to wake up. And Lestrade hoped it would be very soon, for John's sake.  
  
It had been tough the last couple of days for John to watch Sherlock lying motionless in bed with wires and a chest tube protruding from his body. As a doctor he knew that they were necessary, and he knew that Sherlock was going to be okay, but he needed to see him awake. He couldn't stop reliving the moment the car hit Sherlock and all the fear and pain that had gone through him. He thought he'd lost Sherlock for good this time.  
  
The wait had been hell. Waiting to reach the hospital, waiting to hear from the doctor, and now waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He'd been sat by his bedside as soon as he'd been allowed in, courtesy of Mycroft, and had barely strayed from the bed, lest Sherlock woke up by himself.  
  
"You should go home for a bit, John." Lestrade coaxed, "Take a shower, have something to eat, get some sleep maybe."  
  
"No. He might wake up in the meantime and I don't want him to be by himself."  
  
"I'll stay with him."  
  
John's resolve wavered slightly at the invitation. He didn't want to leave Sherlock by himself but he really could use a couple of hours to freshen up.  
  
"Go home, talk to Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure she's worried. I'll be here in case he wakes up, and then in a few hours you can come back."  
  
John sighed in resignation. "Fine. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Text me if anything changes."  
  
"Will do." Lestrade said, as he settled on the seat John had just vacated. "You need to take care of yourself, John. He's going to need you when he wakes up, you need to be there for him."  
  
"I know." John replied. "And I will be."  
  
  
As soon as John's keys entered the door of 221 Baker Street Mrs Hudson had ran out of her flat.  
  
"John! How is he, is everything alright? Are you alright? You look peaky."  
  
"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's still asleep, but he's going to be okay."  
  
"Oh, thank God for that," she said, relief clear in her voice.  
  
"I left Lestrade with him so I could freshen up a bit but I'm going back there soon."  
  
"Of course, dear. I'll make you something to eat." Mrs Hudson replied, and was already at her door when John managed to get a word in.  
  
"No, don't worry about me Mrs Hudson, I'm fine."  
  
"I'll bring it up in half an hour," she shouted from her flat and John thought it best not to argue anymore. She had been worried sick as well. Mycroft had to be the one to tell Mrs Hudson what had happened because John hadn't had the heart to, not again. After Sherlock's death John had been the one to tell Mrs Hudson and he couldn't bring himself to inform her this time.  
  
He made his way up to their flat for the first time in two days. He couldn't help but think that the last time he had been here he was with Sherlock, and everything had been fine.  
  
He shook his head clear of such thoughts and hung his jacket up before making his way to the bathroom. He took off his clothes, his muscles protesting at the movement, and turned the shower on nice and hot. He looked at himself in the mirror and wondered how Lestrade hadn't sent him home before. His eyes looked tired and sunken in, his skin a shade paler than was usual and his hair was a mess from the sleepless nights by Sherlock's bedside.  
  
He'd cried the first night, unable to keep his emotions in check. He'd cried with the relief of seeing Sherlock alive and the pain of not seeing him awake. For the short few moments between the doctor's arrival and his revelation of Sherlock's state John had thought that the news were going to be terrible. That Sherlock might not have survived, that he'd suffered irreparable damage, or that he would never wake up again. He winced when the doctor told them all of Sherlock's injuries; concussion, broken ribs, punctured lung, broken arm, dislocated shoulder and a wide array of bruises of his back and side where he had taken on most of the impact.  
  
It was one thing to see it happening, it was another to realize the extent of what it did to Sherlock. Nevertheless he was going to be fine, which was what John needed to concentrate on.  
  
He got in the shower and sighed heavily as the hot water hit his aching muscles, relaxing him. For a few seconds he was able to forget the worry of the last few days and simply shut off. No thinking, no worrying, just some much needed peace and quiet.  
  
He stayed in the shower for a good half an hour, spending most of his time just standing under the cascading water until he heard Mrs Hudson walk into the flat. She had left by the time he got out, wrapped around his towel and Sherlock's dressing gown, but she'd left him some lunch on the kitchen table.  
  
Clearly she understood that John needed some time alone and he was grateful. He didn't even wait to get dressed before sitting down and devouring the meal. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first forkful passed his lips and he marveled once again at Mrs Hudson's cooking.  
  
He got up and washed the plate and cutlery before setting them down on the tray Mrs Hudson had brought up; he would take them downstairs before he left for the hospital again, he just needed to get changed.  
  
But once he reached the bedroom he realized how tired he really was. He'd managed to catch an hour or two of sleep between now and the time Lestrade had kicked him out of the hospital, but never much more because he'd been worried Sherlock would wake up and John wouldn't hear him, even though he knew how unlikely that was. He decided to sleep for an hour or so before going back to the hospital, Lestrade was with Sherlock and he would call John if he was needed, he might as well take advantage of the situation.  
  
He lay his head down on the pillow, Sherlock's dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, and drew the covers up and within a few short minutes was sound asleep.  
  
  
Lestrade looked down at Sherlock's sleeping form, taking in all the wires and machines that helped keep him alive. The last two days had been awful. On one hand he was worried about Sherlock and whether or not he would make it through, on the other he was worried about John, who looked just about ready to keel over. He hadn't left Sherlock's side since day one and had barely slept or eaten, all behaviours that he usually chastised Sherlock for.  
  
But he'd finally been able to get John to go home after a little convincing and the promise of looking after Sherlock while he was away. Lestrade had been sitting by his bedside for the last six hours. Luckily all he had to do today was paperwork which he had delivered at the hospital so he could work and look after Sherlock at the same time. It seemed John had been more tired than he claimed, but Lestrade was relieved that John was still at home, hopefully asleep. There wasn't much either of them could do at the hospital, not until Sherlock woke up anyway, at which point John would be the best person to have at the hospital because Sherlock would be fighting to go home the second he woke up.  
  
A nurse had come in a couple of times while Lestrade was there, only to check Sherlock's vitals and leave once again. He hadn't asked her if there had been any progress because John had pestered the entire staff enough in the two days he had spent here. Every time he asked they would say the same thing, that they could only tell if there had been any lasting damage once Sherlock woke up, which he should do soon. But John, seeing no progress, had continued asking them if they were going to do anything until they had to threaten to kick him out, regardless of Mycroft's influence.  
  
After that John had become sullen and quiet, sitting motionless by Sherlock's bed day and night, occasionally dozing off, only to wake up in a panic that something had happened to Sherlock while he was asleep.  
  
John, being a doctor, knew that rest was the best thing for Sherlock at the moment, but something inside him wouldn't let him rest. Lestrade assumed it was because of what had happened at St. Bart's. Sherlock's death had hit them all hard, but John had suffered the most. Not only because he was the closest to Sherlock but also because he had been there. Sherlock's accident now must have dredged up all those memories and John was on full-alert.  
  
A state that Lestrade found himself in now as well, seeing as Sherlock had been stirring for the last couple of hours, showing small signs of waking up. His hands would twitch every so often and his eyes would move under his eyelids. Lestrade had called the nurse already and she had smiled before telling Lestrade not to worry, that it was simply Sherlock slowly waking up.  
  
When Sherlock started shifting in bed Lestrade thought it would be best to call John, regardless of how much he needed sleep. He would be furious at Lestrade if he'd known Sherlock had been stirring and he hadn't been called, so Lestrade picked up his phone and dialed John's number.  
  
  
John woke up to the shrilling sound of his phone cutting through his dreams. He immediately jumped up in bed and answered it.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked, slightly panicked.  
  
 _"Nothing, John, relax,"_ replied Lestrade, _"Sherlock's been shifting about,_ _nurse says he should be waking up soon, thought you might want to know."_  
  
"I'm on my way," he replied and hung up the phone, not even giving Lestrade time to say anything.  
  
It was then that he realized he was still undressed and quickly ran over to the wardrobe and put on the first thing he laid his hands on. After putting his shoes on he ran downstairs grabbed his jacket and the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up.  
  
"Now going to the hospital," he shouted as he unlocked the door after leaving the tray in front of the stairs. He didn't want to take more time than he had to, he wanted to see Sherlock now.  
  
Luckily he was able to get into a cab fairly quickly and once he arrived at the hospital he ran all the way to Sherlock's room where Lestrade was still sitting going through his paperwork.  
  
"Jesus, did you run here?" Lestrade asked, startled at John's appearance and his quickness.  
  
"From the cab, yes," John confirmed, "How is he?"  
  
"Still asleep, but he's been stirring."  
  
John sighed in relief. "Thanks for staying with him," he said, as he sat down on the chair on the opposite side of Sherlock.  
  
"No problem, it was worth it," Lestrade replied, "you're looking better."  
  
"Yeah, I guess I needed some time away."  
  
It was then that he heard the heart monitor speed up slightly. John's ears caught the miniscule shift in pace straight away and he looked towards Sherlock. He grabbed hold on his hand and softly called out his name.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
The detective's eyelids fluttered slightly and after a few seconds he finally opened his eyes. They roamed around the room for a short time before finally settling on John, who had a huge smile on his face.  
  
"My John," Sherlock said, smiling in return.


	11. Chapter 11

John was so relieved to see Sherlock awake and talking that he just sat there staring at him for a few good seconds. He never thought he'd get tired of the view, not after all the time he spent looking at an unconscious and unresponsive Sherlock. The detective seemed unperturbed by the scrutiny and instead gazed back at John with the same intensity.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You're staring."  
  
"Masterful deduction, Sherlock."  
  
They chuckled, both out of amusement and the relief of finally being together again. John stood up slightly from his chair, still holding Sherlock's hand, and closed the distance between them.  
  
The soft brush of lips was short but reassuring for both of them and they broke apart after Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably from his chair. "I'm right here, you know."  
  
"We're aware, yes," replied Sherlock.  
  
John smiled sheepishly at him and saw a similar grin spread itself across Sherlock's face. John sat back down on his chair, surprised at his show of affection in front of Lestrade. "How are you feeling?" he asked Sherlock, trying to clear the air and also trying to ascertain the state Sherlock was in.  
  
"I'm fine, John, stop fretting."  
  
John and Lestrade both shot him a disbelieving look. It was clear that he was not fine, and John was more than allowed to fret after everything that Sherlock had been through. But Sherlock was being Sherlock, as always, and refused to let any semblance of weakness show.  
  
"Sherlock..." John started, already exasperated by the detective's attitude towards his own well-being.  
  
"John," Lestrade interrupted, "why don't you go get Sherlock's doctor, tell him he's awake, and I'll stay with him.  
  
It was clear that Lestrade wanted John out of the room, for one reason or another. "I don't know what you're going to say, but be nice," he warned, before squeezing Sherlock's hand in reassurance and kissing the top of his head.  
  
Lestrade feigned ignorance. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said and John left the room in search of Sherlock's doctor.  
  
Sherlock was also painfully aware that Lestrade wanted to speak to him in private and was feeling slightly uneasy. He knew that what he'd said to John was a bit not good, but he just wanted to go home and spend time with John without having to worry about being surrounded by strangers asking probing questions about how he was feeling.  
  
"You need to give him a break, Sherlock."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean John's been worried sick about you since you came back. Between your terrible sleeping and eating habits and the smoking and now this John hasn't stopped worrying about you."  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Lestrade cut him off.  
  
"Before you start sulking, no, John didn't tell me. My observational skills aren't as non-existent as you seem to believe. But that's beside the point," Lestrade continued, "You need to be honest with him, and you need to let him take care of you. He's been sitting at your bedside for nearly three days now, I only managed to get him to go home a few hours a go."  
  
"I noticed."  
  
“Then you can see how worried he's been. You can't just pretend you're okay because you know he can see right through it, and trying to figure out what's wrong without you telling him is going to be exhausting. So for once in your life, Sherlock, swallow your pride and let the people that care about you help."  
  
Sherlock was shocked at Lestrade's words. He knew it was true, of course, but he was surprised that Lestrade had voiced them. Perhaps John had been worse off than Sherlock originally thought.  
  
He only managed a curt nod before he heard John and the doctor approaching in the doorway, but Lestrade seemed satisfied.  
  
The doctor asked both John and Lestrade to leave whilst he examined Sherlock. John left with a promise to return as soon as he was allowed and left with Lestrade in search of some coffee. They sat quietly sipping their drinks before Lestrade finally broke the silence.  
  
"Do you know when he can be released?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet," replied John, "but I'll need to ask the doctor as soon as possible because I know Sherlock's going to be climbing the walls in a few hours."  
  
Lestrade laughed at John's observation. They both knew Sherlock was terrible at staying still for any length of time, much less in a hospital where there was nothing for him to do.  
  
"Maybe I should bring him some case files to review."  
  
"Thanks but I don't think that's a good idea, not yet anyway. He had a pretty nasty head wound and he needs to rest and you know what he's like, won't stop until he's solved them all."  
  
"Good point," Lestrade conceded, "maybe after he's released."  
  
"That would be lovely. He'll get bored just sitting at home and there's no way he's going back to work until that concussion's fully healed."  
  
"I'm sure you can keep him entertained," Lestrade replied, jokingly.  
  
John simply smiled and finished his coffee. They made their way back to Sherlock's room where he saw the doctor had left already and Sherlock seemed to be asleep.  
  
"I'm going to go back to the Yard if you don't mind," Lestrade said.  
  
"Of course. Thanks so much, Greg," John replied, earnestly. He always knew he could count on Lestrade, and was glad to have a friend by his side.  
  
"No problem. Text me if you need anything and try not to kill him," he said as he left.  
  
John stood quietly at the door, contemplating whether or not to wake Sherlock up, but before a decision could be made Sherlock himself interrupted.  
  
"Are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"  
  
His eyes were still closed and John marveled at Sherlock's ability to tell John apart from everyone else without even opening his eyes. John moved closer, his eyes raking over Sherlock's body, taking in all the injuries he could see.  
  
"I'm not in pain, John, stop worrying," Sherlock said when he finally opened his eyes and noticed John's frown as he looked over him.  
  
"You should still be resting."  
  
The detective, in typical Sherlock fashion, rolled his eyes. "Oh, dull," he said, in his usual languid drawl.  
  
"How about this then," John suggested, "if you don't at least try to rest, I'm calling your doctor back so he can sedate you and then I'm leaving."  
  
Sherlock huffed in annoying but complied. It was obvious that John was being serious, and he didn't want John to leave. But there was something he wanted to say, a request he daren't ask for fear of showing his weakness. He was still afraid of having nightmares, and John had been the only thing that had been able to keep them at bay. Sherlock was sure that he would only be able to chase the dreams away if John stayed in with him.  
  
"Join me?" he asked with unusual hesitance.  
  
John smiled down at the detective. He knew exactly why Sherlock was asking him to stay and he couldn't argue that Sherlock's presence would also be helpful in keeping his own dreams away. "I would, Sherlock, but I don't know if you've noticed but you have a chest tube coming out of your body."  
  
"I'm well aware, John, but surely we can find a way," he said, "Please?"  
  
John hesitated only slightly before closing the door to Sherlock's room and going over to the bed. He could never say no to Sherlock, much less when he said please.  
  
"They'll kill me if they find me in here," John said as Sherlock shuffled to the side in an attempt to make room for John.  
  
"I won't let them," Sherlock replied in a voice so firm that John found himself smiling at him fondly. Whoever still believed Sherlock was a sociopath clearly didn't know the man. But John knew him, he knew the real Sherlock; the one that made tea for John when he came home late, the one that listened to John rant about his coworkers, the one who loved him.  
  
John somehow managed to climb onto the bed without disturbing Sherlock or any of the apparatus he was connected to. He laid his arm across the pillow and Sherlock shuffled under it, laying his head on John's shoulder and holding John's free hand.  
  
John rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's arm carefully so as to not aggravate his injuries. "You really need to get some rest now, Sherlock. The quicker you recover the quicker we can go home. Do you need anything?"  
  
"I have all I need right here," Sherlock replied, and stretched up so he could kiss John's lips.  
  
Their lips connected and they found themselves unwilling to let go. John angled his head down slightly so as to take the pressure off Sherlock who was stretching himself far too much for his liking and he deepened the kiss. Soon Sherlock's tongue had set out to explore John's mouth, moving slowly across John's lips and meeting John's tongue.  
  
"I love you," John said, as Sherlock planted a final soft kiss on his lips and returned to his spot on John's shoulder, utterly content.  
  
"Love you too," Sherlock replied, his words slurring slightly and his eyes closing as he fell asleep. He was bone tired, which was annoying seeing as he had spent the last two days essentially sleeping. John, on the other hand, kept his eyes open and chose instead to watch Sherlock sleeping peacefully in his arms.  
  
Luckily no one came in to tell him to leave and he rethought his strategy of lying there without sleeping. He was still tired from all the time spent by Sherlock's bedside while he was unconscious and he could use a little sleep.  
  
He dropped a soft kiss on the detective's curls and fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat.  
  
  
Sherlock woke up with a start. He was gasping, which was painful, his head was throbbing, which was painful, and he could hear the heart monitor beeping quickly. At first he didn’t recognize the room he was in, hence his slight panic, but a quick look around the room finally settled his nerves once he realized he was in the hospital. He looked to the side, thankfully noting that John was still asleep, and shut his eyes once again. He shifted slightly in bed, wondering if he was due for another dose of pain medication any time soon. He certainly felt like he needed it.  
  
"Do you need me to call someone?"  
  
Sherlock looked towards the sound, noticing, for the first time, his brother standing by the door.  
  
"What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked, trying to prevent any vulnerability from seeping into his tone.  
  
Mycroft walked slowly over to the chair next to Sherlock and sat down. "I'm merely inquiring into your well-being, you know how I worry."  
  
"Yeah," Sherlock scoffed, "I'm sure that's why you're here."  
  
Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eye, and for a second the detective thought he saw a flash of hurt cross his brother's eyes and he regretted his harsh comment. Was it possible that Mycroft was here just to see if he was okay? Surely he'd been kept up to date with his condition, an appearance by the man himself was unnecessary.  
  
But then he thought back to all the times he'd been hurt or in danger and how Mycroft always found an excuse to see him afterwards, often under the pretense of a case or information. Whether it was after Sherlock almost took that pill, or after the explosion in Baker Street, or after the incident with the CIA Mycroft was always there, though never actually admitting he was there simply just to check on his brother.  
  
After considering this Sherlock chose to heed Lestrade's advice. "I believe I'm due for another dose of pain medication. Perhaps you could inquire into that."  
  
"Certainly," Mycroft said as he made his way out of the room.  
  
It was then that Sherlock felt John shifting in their shared bed. The doctor yawned loudly and stretched as far as he could in the confined space. "Who were you talking to?"  
  
"Mycroft."  
  
"Mycroft was here?" John exclaimed.  
  
"Still is, he's gone to retrieve a nurse."  
  
At that John jumped up in bed, "Why? What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Sherlock started and John shot him a questioning look, "I'm not finished, alright? I was going to say nothing's wrong, I'm just in some pain."  
  
"Oh," John sighed in relief, "aside from that, how are you feeling?"  
  
"Bored."  
  
"Of course you are," John laughed.  
  
"When can I go home?"  
  
At that moment Mycroft walked back in with a nurse and Sherlock's doctor. "That's something to be discussed, brother dear."  
  
"I'm afraid you won't be able to leave until the chest tube is removed, Mr Holmes," his doctor said.  
  
"And when would that be?" asked Sherlock impatiently.  
  
"Perhaps today, but we'll have to keep you under observation for a little longer. But you need rest, which is what I suggest you do now."  
  
"I've been resting all day," Sherlock said, his petulant tone betraying his impatience.  
  
"And you shall rest more before you're allowed to leave, Sherlock. Do try not to be difficult," said Mycroft.  
  
They all stifled a laugh as Sherlock pouted, clearly unhappy with the situation.  
  
The doctor excused himself, as did the nurse after administering Sherlock's medication, and John and Mycroft were left with a bored and slightly energized Sherlock- at least until the medication kicked in. Mycroft left shortly afterwards under the pretense of work, though it was obvious, to John at least, that he wanted to avoid aggravating Sherlock, as his presence often did.  
  
John noticed Sherlock unsuccessfully stiffing a yawn and decided it was time to let him rest.  
  
"I'll let you rest now, but I'll be back tomorrow morning, okay?"  
  
"Okay," replied Sherlock.  
  
His instant acceptance of John's departure showed how tired he really was, and John hoped he would be as accepting of his own needs once they were at home, which would hopefully be very soon. He hated seeing Sherlock lying in a hospital bed connected to all these tubes and machines. He just wanted to take him home and drink tea all day whilst lying in bed or watching crap telly. He just wanted to hold Sherlock in his arms.  
  
Darting one last look in Sherlock's direction, noticing he had closed his eyes and seemed to already be asleep, John closed the door quietly behind him and left.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock woke up the next morning and before he even opened his eyes he realized he was not alone. It was too early for the doctor's round and he knew the nurse had been here already by the fact that he woke up without feeling any pain. It wasn't John, or Sherlock's hand would not be empty, and it was too early for Lestrade to be here. The perfume he smelled from across the room told him it was a woman and the fact that John wasn't here and Mrs Hudson wouldn't come to the hospital without him told Sherlock exactly who was waiting for him to wake up.  
  
"Hello, Molly," he said as he opened his eyes.  
  
She was startled, clearly thinking he was asleep, "Oh, hello Sherlock! I thought you were asleep."  
  
"I was," he said as he tried to sit up, "and then I woke up. What can I do for you?"  
  
She fumbled nervously with her bag for a minute before sitting down on one of the chairs. "I heard about what happened, about the accident. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."  
  
"I am fine, Molly. Thank you for your concern." He was expecting her to come along at some point. Lestrade or John must have informed her of what happened and he knew that Molly would not be satisfied with second-hand news, not when it came to Sherlock.  
  
"Good, good. I'm glad you're alright," she said as she smiled at him. Sherlock always wondered how someone who had such a grim and sometimes lonely job could be so happy all the time, but perhaps that was exactly why. She worked with the dead, so she knew to appreciate the living. He felt he was starting to understand a little bit better now, something he never thought he would aim to do, but was glad for it nonetheless.  
  
He knew it would please John, and it certainly pleased Molly. He had grown to appreciate her after she helped him fake his death and even though she knew he was alive she had still been quite surprised when he had showed up at the lab while he was working on Mycroft's case.  
  
She had been polite and helpful with him as always, and then even managed to talk while they worked and Sherlock hadn't found it dull at all. Perhaps that was because they were talking about John. When he told John he was going to see Molly the doctor had suggested that he tell Molly about their relationship as she had the right to know. Sherlock had done so and was relieved to see that she didn't seem hurt or likely to burst into tears. Instead she had smiled brightly up and him, congratulated him and even hugged him.  
  
Now she seemed a lot more hesitant of him, and he wondered if he really looked that fragile. She had been quiet and withdrawn when she made her way over to the chair and he wondered if it would rude to ask if she was upset or if he should do it. If John were here he'd know what to do.  
  
"Is something the matter, Molly? You're unusually quiet," he finally asked.  
  
Molly looked down and fumbled with her hands before replying, clearly she was nervous. "Nothing's wrong, no," she dismissed, "it's just... when I heard you'd been in an accident I was just, worried, you know? I mean, I know you're with John and I'm so happy for the two of you but I still care for you, Sherlock. Not in that way but, I consider you my friend."  
  
"I do too," he said when he noticed she sounded unsure.  
  
It was clearly what she needed to hear. She finally looked up at him and smiled widely, "Oh, that's good to know and I just didn't want to impose when I came here. Like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Maybe I should leave now." She grabbed her bag and was about to get up when Sherlock's arm shot out and grabbed her wrist.  
  
"You don't have to leave if you don't want to."  
  
"But you need your rest, I can come back another time."  
  
"I just woke up, and there's nothing to do here. If you wish to stay I would not be opposed," he continued. He really could use some company. Between the pain and the haze of the medication he had nothing to do, especially since John wasn't here. Even though he wanted John with him he was glad the doctor was getting some much needed rest.  
  
Molly ended up staying for nearly two hours. Sherlock was pleased with the company, as was Molly, and they spent most of the time discussing Sherlock's deductions of the staff and patients they could see until Sherlock's doctor came in and told him they were about to remove his chest tube.  
  
Sherlock's phone suddenly went off as Molly was about to leave. The doctor eyed the phone gravely and Sherlock handed it to Molly.  
  
"Would you mind telling John what's going on before you leave? He'll start worry if I don't answer and I really want to get this thing off me as soon as possible," he said pointing at the chest tube.  
  
"Of course," Molly replied, "I'll just leave it on the side when I'm done."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
After his chest tube was removed Sherlock finally felt free. There was nothing connected to him that he would get in too much trouble for disconnecting and he could finally walk around. And seeing as John wasn't here yet he decided to do just that. There was only one problem with that. Sherlock didn't tell anyone where he was going so when John got to the hospital and saw the empty bed he panicked.  
  
He ran to the nurses’ station and asked if any of them knew where Sherlock was, but no one did. He ran up and down the hallway looking everywhere for Sherlock. He searched every room, the bathrooms, even the waiting room but didn't find Sherlock anywhere. He ran back to his room hoping that the detective had finished his stroll and had returned and on the way there he found Lestrade.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked when he saw John's frantic state.  
  
"I don't know where Sherlock is. I've looked for him everywhere. He's not in his room, not in the bathroom or the waiting room or anywhere."  
  
"Just calm down, John, we'll find him," Lestrade said, "Go to his room in case he comes back and I'm going to have a look around as well. I'll text you if I find him."  
  
It was clear that John was unhappy with the plan but he complied anyway. He paced the length of the room over and over again until he felt a buzzing in his trouser pocket; a text from Lestrade.  
  
Got him, he's fine. We'll be back soon GL  
  
Where the hell was he? JW  
  
Roof. Not what it sounds like, he just wanted some air GL  
  
John wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved at Lestrade's words. He was infinitely grateful that Lestrade found him, but the circumstances weren't the best. Why was Sherlock on the roof? Lestrade said he just wanted some air but surely there were other places he could go. John knew he was probably overthinking and overreacting but after St. Bart's he didn't want to know about Sherlock on another roof again.  
  
He informed the nurses that Sherlock had been found and would return to his room shortly and then sat down on one of the chairs, trying to calm his nerves.  
  
Lestrade and Sherlock came back ten minutes afterwards and John jumped up when he saw that Sherlock was leaning heavily on the detective inspector. He walked over to them and helped get Sherlock back into bed before he unleashed his full fury at the consulting detective. "What the fuck were you thinking, Sherlock?" he shouted angrily, "You don't tell the nurses where you're going, you don't tell me where you're going, and you end up on the fucking roof? What the hell were you doing there?"  
  
"Calm down, John," Lestrade said before Sherlock had a chance to reply and possibly piss John off even more.  
  
"Would everyone just stop telling me to calm down!" John stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Sherlock scrunching his eyes and hissing in pain. He ran over to the bed and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Don't take this the wrong way, John," he said, "but you're giving me a headache."  
  
"Shit. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he pleaded as he kissed Sherlock softly in the temple, "I was just so worried about you when I didn't see you, why did you go there?"  
  
"I just wanted to get some air. I've been confined to this stupid bed for ages and I thought I'd take advantage of the fact that I can finally move."  
  
John nodded his understanding. Sherlock barely ever stopped when he was at home and he'd been lying in that bed for days now, with a chest tube, no less, which made moving pretty much impossible. No wonder he had jumped at the first chance to get away from the room for a while.  
  
"Just please, next time tell someone."  
  
"I will," Sherlock conceded.  
  
John smiled down at him, confident that Sherlock understood why John had reacted the way he did. He didn't want to control Sherlock, far from it, he was glad that Sherlock had gotten some time away from the stuffy hospital environment, but it was impossible for him not to worry when he didn't know where he was.  
  
"I was thinking you might be able to go home tomorrow, now that they've removed the chest tube."  
  
"That would be perfect."  
  
"I'll see what I can do," John replied and walked out of the room to speak to Sherlock's doctor.  
  
Lestrade moved over from his place at the door and sat next to Sherlock, his arms crossed disapprovingly.  
  
"What's your face doing, Lestrade?"  
  
Lestrade chuckled, amused at Sherlock's attempt to change the subject. He knew that Lestrade wasn't happy with what he'd done, he wasn't as angry as John, of course, but he still intended on saying something to Sherlock.  
  
"My face is being disapproving, would you like to know why?"  
  
"I know why," Sherlock mumbled.  
  
Lestrade tilted his head, "What was that?"  
  
"I said," Sherlock nearly shouted, "I know why."  
  
"Good, because you're lucky I found you so soon or John would have throttled you when you came back to your room." Lestrade smirked and Sherlock had the decency to look slightly ashamed at what he'd done. "Maybe this way you'll remember to tell someone where you're going before running off."  
  
"There won't be a next time," John called from the door.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked, worried that John had somehow ensured that Sherlock wouldn't be allowed out of his room, not that it would stop him but he would still rather not have to run away again, especially after seeing how upset John had been this time.  
  
"You're going home tomorrow, you won't have time to run off anywhere."  
  
Sherlock positively beamed at the news and John and Lestrade both shared an amused look.  
  
"How are you feeling though, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, "You didn't look so good on the way here."  
  
Sherlock adjusted the sling on his arm into a more comfortable position and then lay his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.  
  
"They've started giving him oral medication," John replied, "it doesn't act as quickly as what he had before. I'm assuming that's it?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "very clever, John. I'm just sore."  
  
Sherlock's doctor arrived then and he was taken up for an x-ray to make sure he was ready to go home the next day. In the meantime Lestrade left for work and John stayed behind waiting for Sherlock to return. Once he did, and after the doctor left, Sherlock lied down on the small sofa in the room and spread himself across John who fit comfortably in the sofa. They lay there for hours just talking, Sherlock fighting to stay awake against tiredness and pain, so he could spend time with John.  
  
He couldn't wait to go back to Baker Street. He hated being in the hospital, though he recognized how necessary it may have been. He didn't like the fact that when he was in the hospital his every move was controlled by a number of doctors and nurses who told him to sleep all the time, and worse, dictated when he could see John. Being away from John was the worst part about being stuck in a hospital. Even though he spent most of his time here with Sherlock it was different than being in the comfort of their own home stretched across their sofa watching telly or discussing a case, though his current position definitely made him feel more at home than anything he'd done while at the hospital.  
  
  
To everyone's relief- mostly Sherlock's- he was released the next day after a number of strict rules, all of which he only intended to follow if John agreed. As soon as he woke up he called a nurse in and after a final check he was deemed ready to go home. He text John as soon as he could, telling him to meet him at the hospital at once. It wasn't even half an hour later when John showed up at the door.  
  
He knocked before entering seeing as Sherlock was probably getting dressed. He'd text Mycroft after leaving the hospital the day before telling him that Sherlock was leaving and Mycroft had insisted on going to Baker Street to collect Sherlock's clothes so he was ready the next day by the time John arrived. John had insisted that he could take them to Sherlock in the morning but Mycroft didn't relent and John had a feeling he was just using the clothes as an excuse to see his brother again.  
  
"Come in, John," Sherlock shouted as he tried to get his broken arm through his shirt. "Shit, fuck, ow!" he swore, when he jolted his arm too much.  
  
John burst through the door at the sound of the detective's unusual use of language.  
  
“Didn’t know you had it in you.”  
  
“Living with you has taught me some wonderful things, John.”  
  
He walked over to Sherlock, dropped a quick kiss on his lips, and rolled the sleeve up so that Sherlock could pass his arm cast through, and then repositioned it on the sling, though Sherlock still uttered a few choice words. John helped him put on his trousers, socks and shoes, but held on to Sherlock's coat knowing that it would only cause the detective more pain to try to put it on.  
  
After signing all the papers and collecting Sherlock's medication John draped Sherlock's coat over his shoulders and they got into the car that Mycroft had sent for them.  
  
Once at Baker Street John was able to minimize the amount of fussing from Mrs Hudson before they made their up to their flat. The first thing Sherlock did when he got there was put the kettle on but as he was taking two mugs out of the cupboard John slapped his hand away and led him over to the sofa.  
  
"I was only trying to help," Sherlock muttered as John walked away.  
  
"You didn't let Mrs Hudson fuss, so I'm doing the fussing, alright?"  
  
"Do I have a choice?"  
  
"No," John replied after preparing the two mugs of tea and handing one to Sherlock before sipping from his own and joining the detective on the sofa.  
  
They sat happily watching telly and sipping their tea, both glad to finally be home together. Sherlock had snuggled under John's arm with a blanket spread over him.  
  
When it was time John made dinner for them both while Sherlock napped. They ate their dinner in comfortable silence and when they both finished Sherlock managed to convince John to go to bed without clearing up first.  
  
Getting changed wasn't as much trouble as it had been at the hospital seeing as Sherlock decided he was going to sleep in his pants, something John thought would be rather distracting- which was quite possibly why Sherlock did it. They curled up under the covers, Sherlock fighting to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate any of his injuries too much and finally settled on lying straight on his back with John resting his head on Sherlock's pillow and their hands interlocked over the covers.


	13. Chapter 13

John woke up to Sherlock shifting in bed. The detective was twisting and turning, as much as he could in his injured state, and trying to stifle moans of pain, which did not go unnoticed by John. "What hurts, Sherlock?"  
  
"My ribs," he moaned.  
  
"Just hang on, I'm getting you some ice."  
  
John hopped out of bed and went to the kitchen to gather some ice packs, which he had luckily thought to buy before Sherlock came back home, and a towel. He then remembered Sherlock's medication and somehow managed to balance the ice packs, the towel, the tablets and the glass of water and made his way back upstairs. He handed the tablets to Sherlock along with the glass of water and Sherlock took them without question and handed them back to John.  
  
"Sit up for a bit, Sherlock."  
  
The detective did so and John slid in behind him and put a pillow between them so that Sherlock would be elevated which would be more comfortable for his ribs. He wrapped the towel and around the ice pack and gingerly placed it on Sherlock's ribs.  
  
"Is it too cold?" he asked.  
  
"No, it's fine," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on John's shoulder.  
  
After a while John repositioned the ice pack, noting how still Sherlock was. He peered down through the detective's curls and saw that his eyes were closed and his breathing was even; he'd fallen asleep.  
  
He left the ice pack on for a few more minutes before removing it and bringing the covers up to Sherlock's chest. He ran his hands through the detective's curls and kissed the top of his head before leaning back on his own pillow.  
  
He hated seeing Sherlock in pain but he was glad that he was home so John could take care of him. He was so very grateful that Sherlock hadn't tried to hide his pain and had actually allowed John to help him. Sherlock had a tendency of hiding his pain, whether physical or otherwise, in hopes that it would go away by itself but he knew how much pain it caused John not to be able to help, and so he had allowed John to see him stripped bare of any disguise.  
  
John, deciding it was too early to try to go back to sleep again, simply spent the next few hours watching Sherlock peacefully asleep and running his hands through his hair. At about 8am Sherlock started stirring again and finally opened his eyes.  
  
"Good morning," John said, smiling down at him.  
  
"Morning, John."  
  
"Feeling better?" John asked.  
  
"Much," said Sherlock as he slowly sat up, "thank you."  
  
John leaned over Sherlock and kissed him softly on the lips. "It's what I'm here for. Would you like some tea?"  
  
"I would like a shower," replied Sherlock as he got up off the bed and made his way downstairs, John following close behind.  
  
"Would you like some help?"  
  
"I wouldn't be averse to it," replied Sherlock with a coy smile.  
  
John pushed him carefully towards the bathroom, guiding him with his hands on his hips. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Sherlock laughed, which unfortunately brought on a round of rather painful coughing which literally made him stop in his tracks. John helped by supporting him until the coughing finally subsided. "Take a deep breath," he ordered.  
  
Sherlock did so and was rewarded with yet more pain across his ribs. "I thought this was supposed to get better with time," he winced.  
  
"It is, Sherlock, but it's going to take a while. Let's get you in the shower," he said as he continued to lead Sherlock towards the bathroom.  
  
They managed to both have a shower and not get Sherlock's cast wet. John was left to do most of the work, which didn't bother him, and after their shower John quickly got dressed, leaving Sherlock to dress himself as per his request, and went downstairs to make breakfast.  
  
When Sherlock finally emerged from the bedroom John noted that he wasn't wearing any trousers. When he moved closer and moved the dressing gown aside he noticed that Sherlock wasn't wearing a pyjama top either. Conclusion, he was whether naked under the dressing gown or had only put on his pants.  
  
Sherlock looked intently at John, daring him to make a comment.  
  
"Are you wearing any pants?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock shifted closer to John. "Why don't you check?"  
  
"I think I will," John said as he unraveled Sherlock's dressing gown which immediately fell open displaying Sherlock fully to him. John's hand snaked down from Sherlock's chest all the way to the elastic band of his pants. "It's more than you wore at Buckingham Palace," he noted.  
  
"Perhaps you would like to change that," Sherlock said with a glint in his eye.  
  
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" John teased.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock whispered, his breath ghosting across John's lips.  
  
They both inched forward and their lips met in a deep kiss, John's tongue springing out to lick at Sherlock's lips and then down his jaw all the way to his neck. Sherlock was already making delicious sounds, clearly pleased with the development of the situation. John started edging them both towards the sofa where Sherlock lowered himself carefully with John straddling him.  
  
"You've missed this, haven't you?" John asked between kisses, noting how responsive Sherlock was to his every touch.  
  
Sherlock tilted his head up, giving John more space to nip and suck at his neck. "I've missed you."  
  
John moved his hand agonizingly slowly down Sherlock's chest and sneaked it between Sherlock's legs. The detective gasped in pleasure and arched his back slightly which drove him further into John's hand.  
  
"Would you like me to take care of that?" John asked, stealing a kiss from Sherlock's parted lips.  
  
"If you wouldn't mind, doctor."  
  
"My pleasure," John replied and his hand finally moved underneath Sherlock's pants. For the next few minutes all that could be heard in the flat were Sherlock's breathless moans muffled by John's mouth on his. They'd both missed this. The pleasure. The intimacy. The intensity. It wasn't long before Sherlock was writhing and moaning until John finally pushed him over the edge with one final firm stroke.  
  
Sherlock collapsed back on the sofa, his head resting back at an uncomfortable looking angle. John carefully stood up, tucked Sherlock back in and wrapped the dressing gown firmly around him. Sherlock was still out to the world, eyes closed, lips parted, limbs spread over the sofa.  
  
John went over to the kitchen where he had been preparing breakfast before their little escapade and finished up. When he brought the food and tea back to the living room Sherlock had finally sat up on the sofa properly and seemed more coherent.  
  
"Breakfast?" John asked.  
  
"Starving."  
  
  
The next couple of days were spent in much the same way. John would make breakfast, which Sherlock would eat without complaint, and they would spend the rest of the day watching telly or on their laptops. After dinner they would cuddle up on the sofa or in bed, not doing much of anything, just spending time together.  
  
Even though John thrived on the rush of adrenaline provided by their cases he was more than happy with the calm that had settled over 221B.  
  
They were both watching telly one night, John sitting on the sofa with Sherlock spread across it, his head on John's lap. The day had been a quiet one, as per usual, and after a short walk to the park, which Sherlock had endured under duress, they had dinner at Angelo's and returned home shortly afterwards.  
  
"John," Sherlock called out from his position on John's lap, "do you remember when we made plans for my birthday?"  
  
"Yeah?" John drawled, confused by this particular line of questioning.  
  
"Does your offer still stand"?  
  
"What?" John furrowed his brow in confusion. "You mean about the experiments?"  
  
"Yes, exactly."  
  
"Of course, why do you ask?" Your birthday's not until next year, we're in February!"  
  
"I..." Sherlock hesitated, "I just wondered if you'd changed your mind after what I did this past month."  
  
"You mean your mysterious appearance in the night while I was drunk?" John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock nodding his head. "I'm not mad at you, Sherlock. Why are you bringing this up now?" John questioned, "And now that you mention it, why did you decide to do that on your birthday?"  
  
"I didn't want to be alone," Sherlock admitted, "I just... I wanted to apologise for my behaviour since my return." The pieces were slotting into place, John was slowly starting to understand why Sherlock was talking about this. "The mysterious appearance, the sulking, the running away, the drugs, now the accident."  
  
"Woah, woah, woah, Sherlock, wait!" John interrupted, "First of all, I already forgave you for what you did on your birthday, secondly I'm used to the sulking, thirdly-"  
  
"Third," Sherlock corrected.  
  
"Thirdly you had one slip up, you've been doing great since and lastly, why are you apologising about the accident? It wasn't your fault."  
  
"But it caused you pain. That's unacceptable."  
  
John's heart melted at Sherlock's words. Not only did he overlook the fact that Sherlock himself had been hurt and had saved the boy's life, all he pointed out was the fact that it had upset John. "You saved someone's life, Sherlock, and you survived. That's all that matters to me."  
  
Sherlock still struggled with the concept of emotion sometimes, especially guilt. He'd never cared about anyone enough to elicit the emotion, but lately he found himself experiencing it often. The first time was when he saw the state John was in on Sherlock's birthday. He never thought John would be so affected by his death and seeing him in that state had hurt so much that he couldn't stay. He couldn't see the pain in John's eyes anymore, or deduce the fact that John had spent the day drinking by himself. It hurt too much to see John in that condition, but the next day had been even worse. He couldn't concentrate on anything and had found himself back at Baker Street, just waiting until John returned home.  
  
The second time had been after shouting at John when he’d tried to get Sherlock to talk about his nightmares. It had always been something Sherlock had found difficult to talk about, even when he was younger, and he had felt suffocated. He's run off into the night and done the most stupid thing he could think of, something he thought would help, and something John had explicitly asked him not to do. When he returned home he felt guilty not only for his actions but so very regretful of the pain it had clearly caused John; John who, regardless of his anger, had chosen to help Sherlock struggle through the effects nonetheless.  
  
But what he'd felt about the accident was different, more extreme. He'd acted completely out of instinct when he ran forwards and pulled the boy into his arms and out of the way. He didn't even consider the fact that he might himself come to harm, but the sudden realization had hit him when he saw John leaning over him, panic clear in his features. He'd tried to keep his calm and collected manner, his so-called 'doctor mode' but Sherlock saw right through it all. He saw right through it because he knew John, but most of all because he felt the exact same way. He wasn't sure he was going to make it and the thought of leaving John once again was unbearable. He didn't want to think of what John would be like if he died, and he didn't want to leave John. He loved John, and John loved him. It didn't make sense that they should be apart.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock's head snapped up. John was looking down at him with a curious expression. Had John been saying something? Sherlock had been so deep in his own thoughts that it was likely he had missed it. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"  
  
"I was just worried, you went all still and quiet. Mind palace?"  
  
"Just thinking, actually," Sherlock admitted.  
  
"About..?" John encouraged.  
  
"You," Sherlock replied, "It's always you, John."  
  
John's smile lit up at Sherlock's confession. It wasn't often that they had these conversations, but when they did he was always taken aback by Sherlock's admissions.  
  
"If I didn't know you better I'd say you were a hopeless romantic."  
  
"But you do know me better."  
  
"I do, don't I?” John said, looking down at the detective fondly. He lowered himself so that he could kiss Sherlock. It was one of his favourite things to do, along with cuddling up to Sherlock, tea and chasing criminals through the streets of London. Quite an odd list, but then he always thought normal was overrated.  
  
They finally broke apart and John settled back on the sofa.  
  
"John?" Sherlock called out tentatively. John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. He recognized that tone, he was about to confess to something that John wouldn't like or ask for something that he would be equally displeased about. "I was thinking of going down to Scotland Yard tomorrow to see if Lestrade has any cases for me."  
  
"You're joking, right?"  
  
"I never joke," Sherlock replied firmly.  
  
"You're not going anywhere," John insisted.  
  
"But John," Sherlock whined, "I'm bored, and my concussion is fully healed. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to work."  
  
"Is that so?" John asked, disbelief clear in his tone. "How about the fact that you're still having to take regular medication, meaning you'll need to eat regularly which you will forget to if you're working, the fact that your arm is in a cast and in a sling which will prevent you from doing any running whatsoever as well as most experiments you will most likely deem necessary to conduct to finish the case as well as the fact that you're still recovering from your broken ribs?"  
  
John watched in amusement as Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly ready to spew out some smart remark, and then closed it again once he realized there was no arguing with John, not when it came to his health anyway.  
  
"That reminds me," John continued, "it's time for your medication. Do you want some ice for your ribs as well?"  
  
"I'll get it, don't worry."  
  
"No, I'm doing it, Sherlock. Just lie down and rest," John said as he made his way towards the kitchen.  
  
"I'm tired of resting, John!" Sherlock snapped, "I need to do something useful, even if it's just making the damn tea or fetching some ice." He stalked off into the kitchen and put the kettle on.  
  
"I just don't want you to worsen any of your injuries."  
  
"I hardly think making tea is going to do that, John. Your concern is unfounded."  
  
"Alright, alright," John conceded, "Can you at least make tea without breaking any of the mugs?" Sherlock shot him a stern look from across the kitchen. "Please?" John added, and Sherlock turned around and start preparing the tea.  
  
After finishing their respective tasks they settled back on the sofa in the same position as before. John wrapped the ice pack around a towel once again and gently placed it on Sherlock's ribs. The detective hissed slightly when the ice made contact but settle back comfortable on John's lap, his hand resting on the ice pack so that he could control its position.  
  
"I wanted to have a look at the bruises, if you don't mind, make sure everything's healing nicely," John suggested.  
  
"If you think it's necessary."  
  
"It would make me feel better," John confessed.  
  
"Then I will abide."  
  
Later on at night, after they both got ready for bed, John prepared a glass of water and Sherlock's medication and laid it out on the bedside table. Sherlock himself was sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed, but it was obvious he wasn't asleep. John crawled on top of the bed over to Sherlock. He started leaving a soft trail of kisses down Sherlock's exposed chest, all the way up to his neck again and gave Sherlock's lips one deep long kiss.  
  
"I need you to sit up now." But Sherlock didn't move, though John saw an almost imperceptible smirk on the detective's face. "Sherlock," John warned, "if you play nice I'll get you some old case files tomorrow."  
  
It was almost comical how quickly Sherlock sat up. John slowly removed Sherlock's dressing gown, leaving a trail of kisses along Sherlock's shoulders, trying to avoid any of the bruised areas.  
  
"I thought you were meant to be examining me."  
  
John continued kissing him, moving up to the back of Sherlock's neck just to tease him. "Are you complaining?" he countered.  
  
"No," Sherlock breathed and relaxed into the touch.  
  
John broke the kisses and brought his hands up to Sherlock's back, trying to be gentle as he examined the bruising, but there were times when Sherlock still hissed in pain. Whenever that happened John lightened his touch and ran his tongue over Sherlock's neck to keep him distracted. When he was finally satisfied that the bruises were healing as well as they should he settled the dressing gown over Sherlock again and gently wrapped his arms around the detective.  
  
"I love you," he whispered behind Sherlock, his mouth tantalizingly close to Sherlock's own.  
  
"I know," Sherlock replied, turning slightly so he could reach John's lips, "I love you too."


	14. Chapter 14

"John!" Sherlock called out from his position on the sofa.  
  
"What is it, Sherlock?" John sighed. Sherlock had been extremely restless today. After John's promise to provide him with old case files yesterday Sherlock had been asking him every five minutes when he would be getting them.  
  
"When's Lestrade coming by?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Why don't you ask him?"  
  
"Because I'm asking you."  
  
"Well, I don't know!" John snapped, "He just said he'd come by after work."  
  
Thankfully there was a knock at the door that interrupted any insult that Sherlock might be ready to direct his way. The detective snapped out of his sulk immediately and ran down the stairs. "I got it!" he shouted, before John even managed to walk back into the living room from the kitchen where he'd been preparing an early dinner.  
  
Not a minute later Sherlock walked back into the living room with his nose buried in a case file. There was another stack under his arm. Not surprisingly Lestrade followed behind and shot John an amused look.  
  
"I see you got him a new toy," John noted.  
  
Lestrade grinned as they both watched Sherlock sitting on the sofa intently reading through the first case file. "You're welcome."  
  
He had come to Baker Street specifically to leave Sherlock the case files after John text him desperately asking for them before Sherlock started shooting the walls in boredom.  
  
"Care to join us for dinner?" John asked.  
   
"He has dinner plans with his wife," Sherlock replied before Lestrade could say anything.  
  
"Yeah," Lestrade confirmed, "I just came to drop these off. I'm off now though."  
  
John walked downstairs with Lestrade until they reached the door. Lestrade stopped and turned around to look at John.  
  
“Is he alright?” Lestrade asked, “Honestly?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s fine.” John replied. “He’s been a bit restless lately, but I’d rather he didn’t go back to work fully for a few more days, at least.”  
  
Lestrade nodded, “As long as he’s okay.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, hand on the doorknob but still. “Are you alright? I know it must have been tough.”  
  
“I’m just glad to have him home.”  
  
“Okay. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.” And with that he left.  
  
John was left standing by the door wondering when exactly Greg had become such a close friend. He was glad for it, of course, especially at a time like this, but it still surprised him how much Sherlock had come to accept Greg as well. The detective wasn’t exactly known for being fond of people- John and Mrs Hudson aside- but clearly there was something about Greg that Sherlock just seemed to accept.  
  
Deciding not to dwell on it anymore he walked back upstairs and brought their dinner over to the living room. He turned the telly on and ate silently after placing Sherlock’s plate in front of him, but the detective made no move towards it. “Sherlock, your food’s ready.”  
  
"Not hungry," Sherlock dismissed.  
  
John put his plate down and closed the case file Sherlock was looking at, placed it on top of the others and took them over to the kitchen table. "I don't want to treat you like a child, but if you don't eat I will hide those case files." Sherlock made a mildly displeased sound before he grabbed the plate and started shoveling the food down as quickly as possible. "You might want to try breathing," John suggested.  
  
"Breathing's boring, John, I've told you. Besides, if you insist that I eat than I will do so quickly so I can get back to work. It's a most interesting case."  
  
"I'm glad you feel that way, Sherlock, but I don't want you pushing yourself too much."  
  
John's advice went unheard. When he returned from the bathroom after his shower he found Sherlock, still sitting on the sofa, slumped over the case files on the table.  
  
"Sherlock!" John called out, and the detective sprung his head up suddenly. "Time for bed."  
  
"What? Ow, ow, that hurts!" Sherlock said as he clutched at his ribs. John walked over to the couch and supported him as they walked up the stairs to their room.  
  
  
A week later, on Monday, John returned to work. He'd taken some time off to stay with Sherlock while he recovered from his more serious injuries, and even though he would still rather stay at home with him he knew he needed to go back to work. He loved spending time with Sherlock but now that he had his old case files he spent most of his time working and John spent most of his time updating his blog and fussing over Sherlock.  
  
He woke up early and took a quick shower before fixing himself a cup of tea. He didn't make one for Sherlock because he was still asleep, and John hoped he stayed that way because he still needed his rest. Before leaving he quickly nipped upstairs to kiss Sherlock goodbye, and even though he tried to be quiet Sherlock started stirring in bed.  
  
"Come back to bed, John, it's early," Sherlock muttered, head still buried in his pillow.  
  
"I can't, I have to go to work, remember?"  
  
"Don't care, come back."  
  
John laid a quick kiss on his lips. "Just go back to sleep, Sherlock."  
  
"Fine," he huffed, and went back to sleep.  
  
A few hours later he woke up and set about his morning routine. It was strange not having John around. He's been so used to waking up next to him every day that he felt strangely alone now. Nevertheless he had something to plan that John couldn't know about, so he was glad to have some time to do it while John was away.  
  
After showering, getting dressed and having breakfast, after John text him reminding him to do so, he went downstairs and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. She came to the door almost immediately. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"  
  
"I require your assistance."  
  
Mrs Hudson happily obliged his request and they spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Sherlock was determined to learn so that he could do everything himself when the time came, hopefully John would be pleased.  
  
When John returned home all traces had been wiped. The kitchen was clean, Mrs Hudson was back in her flat and Sherlock was working away on his laptop.  
  
"Sherlock, I'm back!" John called out from the stairs, carrying two bags of shopping in his hands. He set them down on the kitchen and went over to Sherlock, laid a kiss on his lips and returned to the kitchen to put the shopping away when he finally noticed something odd. "Have you been cooking?" John asked.  
  
"Why would I do such a thing?"  
  
"I honestly don't know, but there's food missing from the fridge. What did you do with it?"  
  
"Oh, that," Sherlock tried to dismiss, "Mrs Hudson needed something for her dinner and I told her to take whatever she needed."  
  
John wasn't entirely convinced but didn't question him further. However, the strange evasions continued the next day.  
  
They were lying in bed, Sherlock on his laptop and John practically asleep when Sherlock interrupted his slumber.  
  
"What time are you working on Thursday, John?"  
  
"Same time as always, why do you ask?"  
  
"No reason," Sherlock replied dismissively.  
  
"You never ask anything for no reason." John was growing more and more suspicious of Sherlock's odd behavior and questions, and he couldn't pretend not to notice it anymore. "Are you planning on doing some weird experiment, Sherlock?"  
  
"Why would I need to know what time you're working to do an experiment?"  
  
"So you can hide it before I get home because you know I won't like it."  
  
"No," Sherlock replied, none too convincingly. He knew that John was becoming suspicious but he preferred John to think he was doing strange experiments, that way he wouldn't over think Sherlock's behaviour and possibly figure out what he had planned.  
  
"No experiments, Sherlock, I've told you. Not until your arm is better."  
  
Thursday came and Sherlock didn't stir when John kissed him goodbye, even though he was actually awake.  
  
He got up as soon as he heard John close the door and got ready. He had a shower, got dressed and started organizing his case files, even calling Lestrade to collect the ones he had already solved. He cleaned up the living room, which mostly meant piling things up in the corner and removed his experiments from the kitchen- the more mild ones John had allowed- into his old bedroom. When he was satisfied with the state of the living room he started working on the kitchen. His phone went off just as he was about to tackle the body parts in the fridge.  
  
 **Please tell me the flat is still standing JW**  
  
 **Of course it is, stop worrying SH**  
  
 **Fine. I'll be home a bit earlier today, slow day JW**  
  
This changed Sherlock's plans. He had to clean up the kitchen as soon as possible so he could take care of everything else. John's warning had come in handy and Sherlock managed to prepare everything just in time.  
  
John was pleasantly surprised when he arrived home and the flat was still intact. Regardless of Sherlock's dismissals of weird experiments John was sure that he'd been up to something, he just didn't know what. Sherlock, however, was nowhere to be found. There was a pleasant smell in the air- definitely not from experiments- and the flat was surprisingly warm.  
  
John hung his jacket up and made his way to the kitchen. "Sherlock," he shouted, "are you in here?"  
  
His mouth dropped open when he saw the state the kitchen was in. It wasn't clean, it was immaculate. There were no experiments anywhere, the dishes were clean and put away in the respective cupboard and the table was set. There were two plates and the corresponding cutlery as well as two glasses of wine.  
  
Sherlock arrived a few seconds afterwards. He was dressed in his suit with his usual purple shirt- John's favourite- but no suit jacket, probably due to his cast. His hair was neatly arranged, not the usual disarray of curls and he was smiling nervously at John.  
  
"What do you think?" he asked.  
  
"You..." John stammered, "you made dinner?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock admitted rather shyly. He had been planning this for a few days, as a way to show John how grateful he was for looking after him, and as a way for them to spend a pleasant evening. "Happy Valentine's day."  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," John breathed, touched and surprised at all the trouble Sherlock had gone through. He had never seen Sherlock do anything like this, but now he finally understood why. It also explained the odd questions and the missing food, which was a relief.  
  
He walked over to him and wrapped his arms firmly around the detective. "Happy Valentine's day, Sherlock."


	15. Chapter 15

John pulled away from the hug to marvel once again at everything Sherlock had done. He hadn't entirely forgotten it was Valentine's Day but he wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock wanted to celebrate and since he was working that day he decided that they would just have a quiet evening in. But it seemed Sherlock had other plans, and had taken care of everything himself.  
  
"When did you do all of this?" John asked.  
   
"Today, as soon as you left for work, but Mrs Hudson gave me some cooking lessons last week," he admitted.  
  
"So that's where all the food went!" John exclaimed.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, it may have taken me a little longer than usual to perfect the dish, but I finally did. Shall we eat?"  
  
"Yeah, of course."  
  
John sat down at the table while Sherlock went over to the oven and opened it. He paused as he realized that he needed John's help.  
  
"John, perhaps you could give me a hand?"  
  
"Of course, what do you need?"  
  
"Could you get that out of the oven?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
John walked over to the oven and took out a delicious looking lasagna. "You did all this by yourself?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
They both sat down and dug into their food. John was starving since he hadn't had much time to eat today and seeing as he himself was planning on making something for dinner he hadn't eaten on the way home either. Sherlock was also hungry and they barely said anything while they ate. John broke the silence a couple of times to congratulate Sherlock once again on his cooking and his ability to keep everything from John.  
  
"It was hardly difficult," Sherlock said, "you should have been paying more attention."  
  
"I was too busy worrying you would blow up the flat."  
  
"I would never to such a thing."  
  
"Not on purpose," John mumbled.  
  
"I heard that," Sherlock said as he glared across at John, who just laughed.  
  
Dinner was delicious, as expected, and between the two of them they easily finished the bottle of wine, even though John argued that Sherlock shouldn't be drinking. When they finished they cleared the table. John was just putting his glass of wine in the sink when all of a sudden Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around and trapped him between himself and the table.  
  
Sherlock's hands started working away at John's shirt while his mouth occupied John's, teeth and tongue clashing in a needy kiss. Sherlock wasn't deterred by the fact that he technically only had one working arm and soon had John's shirt completely off.  
  
John used his hands to push himself onto the table and opened his legs up so that Sherlock could stand between them, which gave him access to every part of John he wanted.  
  
"Is this what you had in mind for dessert?" John asked as Sherlock swiped his tongue over his neck and John groaned in satisfaction. He had a weak spot for Sherlock's tongue; the things that man did with it were beyond amazing.  
  
"Definitely."  
  
John hands were roaming over Sherlock's back, unhappy with the amount of clothes the detective was still wearing. Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth again, his left hand on the back of John's neck pushing him flush against the detective.  
  
"Sherlock," John breathed, "careful with your arm." It was trapped between their chests and John was worried that Sherlock would hurt himself in the process. He wasn't exactly being mellow, though John wasn't complaining.  
  
Instead of replying, Sherlock sucked at John's neck with intensely, effectively clearing John's mind from any thought aside from Sherlock's mouth and his magnificent tongue.  
  
"That's going to leave a mark," Sherlock grinned as he licked his way down John's chest.  
  
"As if you didn't do that on purpose." It wasn't the first time that they had left marks on the others body, but John had no way of hiding this one. Sherlock's hips were often marked with John's fingers, as were his thighs but then John could never resist marking Sherlock's pale skin.  
  
"You love it."  
  
Sherlock seemed determined to cover John’s entire chest with his tongue. He licked and sucked and grazed his teeth over every inch of flesh he could find and his hand was already busy trying to unzip John's trousers. But John had something else in mind.  
  
He grabbed Sherlock's hand and brought it up to his mouth where he started sucking Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock gasped, clearly picturing John's tongue working away at something else. While Sherlock was distracted John started undoing his shirt, slowly revealing Sherlock's chest to him.  
  
John removed Sherlock's hand from his mouth and started carefully removing his arm from the sling so that he could take his shirt off completely. "Sherlock, help me out here," he said, when Sherlock left him to do all the work.  
  
They effectively freed Sherlock's arm and John started bringing Sherlock's shirt down his arms, over the cast, and then finally completely off. He threw it down on the floor where it joined John's shirt and after putting Sherlock's arm back in the sling started moving his hands over Sherlock's chest and back, noting that most of the bruises had faded already.  
  
He ran his fingers slowly across Sherlock's ribs, careful not to hurt him, and then brushed his lips over them gently. "Do they still hurt?"  
  
"Very rarely. You took excellent care of me."  
  
"Well, it's what I'm here for."  
  
"I never thanked you that for that, did I?"  
  
"Maybe you'll make it up to me tonight," John whispered in Sherlock's ear, and felt him shiver and harden against him.  
  
He got off the table, grabbed Sherlock's hand and started leading him towards Sherlock's bedroom.  
  
"John, wait!" Sherlock almost shouted.  
  
"What is it?" John asked, confused.  
  
"Why don't we go up to your room, like always?"  
  
"Okay," John drawled out, "I was just thinking yours is a lot closer."  
  
"Yeah, but..."  
  
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who was now pulling John towards the stairs. "You hid your experiments in there, didn't you?"  
  
"I didn't hide them," Sherlock said, "I... I put them away."  
  
"In your bedroom."  
  
"Yes, in my bedroom."  
  
"I should have known better than to think you'd cleared everything up. You probably hid everything in there," John teased. He knew that wasn't true, Sherlock had done a very good job cleaning the flat, and he understood that Sherlock didn't want to discard of any of his experiments, but he liked to see Sherlock squirming and trying to explain himself.  
  
"You should know better than to think you can get away with all this talking while we're trying to have sex," Sherlock replied, and gave John's hand one final tug and didn't stop pulling until they were in their bedroom.  
  
When they finally reached the bedroom John threw Sherlock down on the bed and straddled his hips. He covered Sherlock with his own body, careful not to put too much pressure on him, and kissed him. Sherlock grabbed the back on John's neck and deepened the kiss. He felt John moaning against his lips and let go of his neck to bring his hand down to John's trousers where he finally managed to unzip them and started working them down John's hips.  
  
John broke the kiss and got off the bed and after taking off his trousers, socks and shoes returned to his position over Sherlock, now only wearing his pants. Once again, he thought about how Sherlock was wearing too many clothes and decided to deal with that fact immediately.  
  
He unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers and tugged at him until he lifted his hips and allowed John to bring them all the way down and off, followed by his shoes and socks.  
  
"You've got such a gorgeous body, Sherlock."  
  
"So I've been told."  
  
That stopped John in his tracks. He crawled over Sherlock's body and narrowed his eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It's supposed to mean that you tell me that all the time, stop being an idiot."  
  
Sherlock hand reached out to John's arse and squeezed. John yelped slightly and bucked his hips forward, which seemed to please Sherlock. He grinned widely at John.  
  
"Take your pants off," he said, with such urgency that John couldn't help but obey immediately.  
  
Sherlock then started sliding down until his head was right between John's legs and John had to hold on to the headboard when Sherlock's tongue slid out.  
  
"Oh God, Sherlock," he moaned. Sherlock was licking at his length from top to bottom, never actually taking him in, but always touching him. His hand snuck out from where it was trapped and he started ghosting his finger over John's arse.  
  
"I think it's my turn to take care of you tonight," Sherlock said and then finally took John in his mouth. John bucked his hips forward, moving himself further into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's position made it rather difficult for him to move so John did all the work. He thrust gently in and out of Sherlock's mouth, his hands white from all the pressure he was putting on the headboard. His head was hanging low, looking down at Sherlock, and when their eyes met John had to make a valiant effort not to lose control right then.  
  
He slipped out of Sherlock, panting, and sat back on his heels. Sherlock started sitting up against the bed, haggard, but clearly pleased. He was grinning widely at John, who was still trying to get his breath back.  
  
"Why the hell are you still wearing pants?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock quickly slipped out of them and threw them on the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about, John," he said innocently.  
  
"You think you're clever, don't you?"  
  
"I know I'm clever."  
  
John moved forward once again, on his hands and knees, and crawled forward until he was close to Sherlock. He closed the small gap between them and joined his lips to Sherlock's, tongues playing out, small nips being delivered. While John was distracted Sherlock's hand snuck into the drawer and he took out the lube. He coated his left hand with it and dropped it on the floor and then brought his hand between John's legs.  
  
John tensed slightly when he realized what Sherlock was about to do but then relaxed into the touch. Sherlock circled his entrance, just teasing, but John was having none of it and pushed back on Sherlock's finger until Sherlock was inside him. He broke the kiss and sucked in a strangled breath.  
  
"Enjoying that, are you?" Sherlock asked as he worked his finger in and out of John. He moved slowly- agonizingly slowly- until John had to keep pushing back to try to get more of him, but he kept pushing his finger back out of John's reach.  
  
"Stop fucking around, Sherlock," John snapped, desperate.  
  
"I thought fucking around was the point."  
  
John simply glared at Sherlock, whose smirk kept growing as John kept grinding his hips looking for friction. John's glare faltered when Sherlock inserted two fingers inside him.  
  
"Oh," he groaned, "that feels so good. You feel so good, Sherlock."  
  
"I'll feel even better in a minute."  
  
Sherlock kept working John, moving his fingers in and out until John was crying out in sheer need; need for Sherlock, need for more. Sherlock withdrew his fingers and grabbed the lube from the floor. Just as he was about to slick himself up John grabbed his hand.  
  
"Let me." John coated his hand in lube and grabbed Sherlock's length, preparing him. Sherlock threw his head back, his mouth parted open in pleasure. John rubbed his hand slowly up and down until Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and suddenly took his arm out of the sling and grabbed John's hips.  
  
"Sherlock, be careful, you'll hurt yourself!"  
  
But Sherlock didn't listen, he pushed through the discomfort of having his arm freed, lined himself up with John and lowered John's hips until he was sheathed inside him.  
  
They both moaned in pleasure and John closed his eyes and buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock started thrusting slowly in and out, John meeting his thrusts with his hips.   
  
"Best, Valentine's, ever," John groaned out between thrusts. He slowly removed his head from Sherlock's shoulder and kissed him, lips lingering for a long time, just moving slowly across Sherlock's while Sherlock moved inside him.  
  
John then wrapped his legs around Sherlock's back and they both groaned as Sherlock entered John even more, his hips moving at a quicker pace now as John interlocked his ankles and met Sherlock's thrusts.  
  
They were both sweaty, groaning, breathing heavily. John's hips would bear the marks of Sherlock's fingers for days, John's ankles kept pushing Sherlock forward, further inside John and the doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him hastily, then moved down to the detective's neck and started sucking.  
  
Sherlock threw his head back in pleasure and quickened the pace. John didn't know how they could go any faster, and while one side of him didn't want this to end, he was enjoying the brisk pace.  
  
"You feel so good, John," Sherlock groaned out. One of his hands left John's hips and wrapped itself around John's length. John whimpered and then started shouting in pleasure as Sherlock moved in and out of him and ran his hand up and down his length, tightening his grip every so often.  
  
John and Sherlock were looking intently at one another, enjoying the looks of pure pleasure on the others face. Sherlock was extremely pleased with himself when he brushed John's prostate and instead of moaning John shut his eyes and opened his mouth, unable to make a sound. Sherlock took the opportunity and slid his tongue inside John's mouth, tasting him, filling him.  
  
Their kisses were messy, frantic, desperate, as were their movements. Sherlock almost lost his hold on John twice, his hand slippery, distracted by the overwhelming pleasure he was feeling of being so close to John.  
  
"Sherlock, I'm not going to last much longer."  
  
"Then you better enjoy this while it lasts."  
  
That prompted John to take control. He moves and starting pushing his feet down on the mattress which allowed him to control the thrusts and he barely felt Sherlock moving now. He was too far gone, desperate for release, overwhelmed with pleasure. When John felt the burning heat boiling inside him he clamped his mouth down on Sherlock's neck, muffling his cries as he lost control.  
  
The combination of John squeezing around him, his length over Sherlock's stomach and his mouth biting into his neck brought him over the edge completely.  
  
They held on to one another, joined at every possible end, arms and legs around each other, mouths now connected until their muscles relaxed and they collapsed against one another completely spent.  
  
Eventually John disengaged himself from Sherlock, who had collapsed back against the headboard. His eyes were shut and his lips were pressed into a thin line.  
  
"Are you alright?" John asked. When Sherlock didn't reply he started to worry. "Sherlock?"  
  
The detective opened his eyes and smiled up at John, but he still looked uncomfortable. "Sling," he muttered pointing at the floor.  
  
"Oh, okay." John scrambled off the bed and grabbed the sling, carefully setting Sherlock's arm in the right place. "Do you need some painkillers, are you okay?"  
  
"I'm fine, John. It was just uncomfortable," Sherlock replied. "It was worth it though."  
  
John smiled at him, utterly content. "Definitely worth it."


	16. Chapter 16

John came home on Friday to an empty flat. This surprised him because Sherlock rarely went out, and whenever he did he always text John first. After putting the kettle on he sat down on his chair and pulled his phone out.  
  
 **Where are you? JW**  
  
John fretted while he waited. He prepared his tea and then settled for watching some telly while he waited for Sherlock to reply. Thankfully he didn't have to wait too long.  
  
 **Case. Lestrade needed my help. SH**  
  
John knew he wouldn't be able to get anything else out of Sherlock. He couldn't blame him for being out on a case even though John had told him not to. Sherlock had been home from the hospital for two weeks now and had only worked on old case files, an actual case with a crime scene must have been too appealing for him to say no.  
  
He made dinner, leaving an extra plate for Sherlock for when he came home, and ate quietly by himself. He was glad that Sherlock had something to work on and to keep him distracted, he just hoped that he didn't push himself too much.  
  
After dinner he laid down on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to return. He was tired and if Sherlock were here he would probably go to bed, but he didn't want to sleep until the detective arrived. He only realized he'd dozed off when he heard shuffling on the stairs.  
  
"I'm fine, get off me," he heard Sherlock say, clearly annoyed.  
  
"You are not fine. Now stop arguing and get up the stairs."  
  
That didn't sound good. It didn't sound good at all. John sprang off the sofa and ran to the stairs. "What the hell happened"? he asked when he saw Sherlock leaning heavily against Lestrade and looking rather pale.  
  
"The idiot here passed out in my office," Lestrade said.  
  
John wrapped Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and wrapped his own around Sherlock's waist, effectively freeing Lestrade, and brought him over to the sofa, laying him down gently. He went over to the kitchen, heated up Sherlock's dinner and brought it over to him. All the while no one said a single word; John too angry, Sherlock too tired and Lestrade too hesitant.  
  
"Eat," he said sternly to Sherlock, who sat up and complied immediately.  
  
John then turned to Lestrade who was standing by the door looking amused at how quiet Sherlock was. John was probably the only one who could shut him up, and even that only happened occasionally.  
  
"Is he going to be alright then?" Lestrade asked.  
  
"Yeah, probably just hasn't eaten the whole day. It's why I didn't want him working any cases yet in the first place."  
  
"Well, the case isn't over yet so maybe you could bring him by again tomorrow, come with him to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."  
  
John thought the offer over in his head. It definitely sounded exactly like what they both needed. John hadn't actually worked a case with Sherlock properly yet and it was clear that the detective was eager to go back to work. "I take it you really need his help."  
  
"Don't tell him I said so, but yes, I really do."  
  
"Then I guess we'll be there."  
  
After Lestrade left John turned around to find that Sherlock had finished his dinner. John went upstairs quickly and when he came back he had his medical kit with him.  
  
"John, that's completely unnecessary, I'm fine," Sherlock complained from the sofa.  
  
"How about you let me be the judge of that?" John asked as he settled beside Sherlock and checked him over. He took his pulse and his blood pressure, noting, thankfully, that both were fine. He then started checking over Sherlock's previous injuries, namely his ribs and his arm. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"  
  
"Jolted my arm," Sherlock admitted.  
  
John put his medical kit away and went to the kitchen to fetch Sherlock's medication. He put them on the table along with a glass of water and Sherlock gulped both down straight away.  
  
"Let me guess," John said, "Lestrade called you in and you forgot to eat or take any food with you and even when you started feeling like crap you stayed because you were bored of just sitting around the flat."  
  
"You know me so well, John," Sherlock smirked.  
  
"This isn't funny, Sherlock! I warned you about this. I bet you didn't even take your medication. You're probably in a lot more pain right now then you're giving away."  
  
"Actually, I did take my medication," Sherlock said triumphantly.  
  
"And you didn't eat anything."  
  
"No," Sherlock mumbled.  
  
"Then that explains why you fainted," John said as he sat down next to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him. "I just worry about you, Sherlock, you know that."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I don't want to sound like I'm controlling you, I just want you to take better care of yourself." John buried his head on Sherlock's shoulder and the detective wrapped his arms tightly around him.  
  
"I will, and I have. I just got distracted today. I've been sitting around here for weeks not doing anything, I just needed a case!"  
  
"And now you've got one, but I'm coming with you tomorrow."  
  
"Really?" Sherlock exclaimed.  
  
"Obviously."  
  
  
The next day was spent between Scotland Yard, the crime scene and Bart's. Sherlock and John had shown up like Lestrade had asked and it was obvious how relieved the detective inspector was. It wasn't an exceptionally difficult case but Lestrade was working on several cases at once and needed Sherlock's help, which Sherlock was more than happy to supply.  
  
By the end of the day, and after hours spent watching Sherlock observe, experiment and deduce, the case was finally solved. John could see how happy Sherlock was to be back to work. There was a spark in his eye and unmistakable confidence in his every word- not that Sherlock was self-conscious, but he became more self-assured when working, more energized, more intense.  
  
John had always been fascinated to see Sherlock working but it felt so refreshing now. He had watched Sherlock at the crime scene, intently, gaze never lifting from him. Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, taking in every scrap of information, making sense of it all, storing it away for later use, and in the end it all made sense to him. Even if John had seen it done over and over again Sherlock's deductions still baffled him. How he took a single piece of what could be considered trivial information and took it apart, made sense of it, and blurted it all out at top speed whilst still gathering more from the room, from the body, from everything.  
  
John could tell that Lestrade felt the same way, even after years of working with Sherlock. John remembered how pleased Lestrade looked at the first crime scene John and Sherlock had worked together, urging Sherlock to tell them his process by implying that Sherlock was making it up. He knew it wasn't true, of course, Sherlock didn't need to make any of it up to impress people, but Sherlock had felt the need to explain himself, huffed out his deductions as he moved fluidly across the room, pointing out little bits of information all the dull minds had missed.  
  
There were times when Sherlock's clear distaste for everyone's 'funny little brains' irritated John. Not because they affected him personally, he knew that his mind could never work like Sherlock's, but he always hoped that Sherlock would be more tactful in his responses. It was one of the many things that had changed since Sherlock's return. He hadn't changed at all when it came to working with the Yard- especially Donovan and Anderson- but when he was around the house and John was being particularly ignorant about something Sherlock would call him out on it with a smirk playing at his lips, instead of with irritation in his voice. John thought that maybe Sherlock had missed correcting him while he had been away, alone, traveling the world and hunting down criminals, but they didn't speak about that time anymore.  
  
Sherlock's nightmares had gone away, John's were kept away by Sherlock's presence and everything was back to normal now, but not quite the same. _Definitely better_ , John thought.  
  
  
Sherlock ran up the stairs to 221B, John following close behind him. After the case was solved they had gone to Angelo's for dinner and then walked back to Baker Street. As tired as John was from the day's work he didn't think he would be able to go to sleep now, and he was sure that Sherlock would not be able to either.  
  
"That was amazing, John! Did you feel it? You must have, of course you did," Sherlock said as he paced around the living room still wearing his coat and scarf.  
  
"What exactly are you talking about?"  
  
"The case, John! The case, the thrill of the chase, everything! Oh, how I've missed it."  
  
John smiled, happy to see Sherlock so excited about something. He'd been back for nearly six weeks and so much had happened. John felt like he needed a month's rest from the excitement, just spending some time solving cases with Sherlock with nothing extraordinary happening, but he knew that was too much to ask for.  
  
Life was never quiet or predictable when living with Sherlock Holmes, and most definitely not when sleeping with him, and John thought that he secretly liked it. Liked to be kept on his toes, not knowing what was going to happen, though he could definitely go without any more injuries or accidents for a life time. Sherlock's accident may not have caused that much damage but John had still been scared to lose him. Still was, on a daily basis, and he suspected Sherlock was too. But that was their life, and they would never give it up for anything.  
  
"Guess I'm not exciting enough for you then," John said as he slipped off his jacket. He watched in amusement as Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to look at him, mouth agape.  
  
"Of course you are, John! You're most exciting, but this is different. It keeps me busy, it keeps me sane."  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down."  
  
"I can't calm down, I need to do something." Sherlock finally took off his coat and scarf and threw them unceremoniously over his chair, then stalked off to his room. John didn't even have time to question what exactly he was doing when the detective came into the kitchen balancing his microscope dangerously with only one hand. He went to his room a few more times to retrieve microscope slides and other substances that John didn't want to think about.  
  
John settled down on the sofa watching telly, too wired to sleep, but too tired to do anything else. Sherlock would be spending the rest of the night on his experiments, but unlike before he was perfectly aware of John's presence. Whenever John got up to get his laptop or a book or even just to go to the bathroom he could see Sherlock lift his eyes slightly off the microscope and follow him around the room until he returned to his seat on the sofa.  
  
After a couple of hours John felt himself nodding off. It was 3am and he was glad it was Saturday so that he could have a lay in the next day. He was thinking of reducing his hours at the clinic. Sherlock was back to work now and he needed him and John hated the idea of being at the clinic while Sherlock was away working on exciting cases, although he still needed something outside of Sherlock's work for himself. He hadn't gotten the job at the clinic just because he needed the money; he enjoyed being a doctor and treating people, even if it was a bit mundane, it served to ground him to reality and everyday life.  
  
When Sherlock noticed that John had fallen asleep on the sofa he walked over to him and wrapped a blanket tightly around the doctor. He didn't want to wake him up and drag him to bed. John had been busy between work and Sherlock, and now Sherlock's work, and he hoped that John would be able to catch up on his sleep this weekend.  
  
Tomorrow- or in this case later on in the morning- Sherlock would prepare a nice big breakfast for John and simply laze around the flat. They'd done that quite a lot lately, but it had been because of Sherlock's injuries. Now it was time for Sherlock to take care of John for a change; to make him tea and lunch and cover him with blankets and kisses and watch crap telly with him.  
  
Sherlock was surprised to enjoy the quieter days with John, but then so much surprised him about John. How he could look so innocent and be so deadly, how mundane he looked on the outside but how exquisite he was on the inside, how he accepted for Sherlock for who he was but couldn't tolerate a single bad comment being thrown his way. Everything about John surprised him, and he was more than happy to spend the rest of his life being surprised.


	17. Chapter 17

"I'm free, John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he flexed and moved his arm every which way. It was six weeks after the accident and he was finally allowed to remove both the cast and the sling.  
  
"Not if you keep doing that you're not," John said, worried that Sherlock would dislocate something. "You know you really should go to physiotherapy, right?"  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "I don't need physiotherapy. I know all the exercises and I have a doctor at home, what else do I need?"  
  
"A capable professional to ensure your shoulder is healing properly and you don't hurt yourself again," John replied sternly.  
  
Sherlock turned around and looked John in the eye. "I'm looking at him."  
  
John couldn't help but grin. He'd always considered himself a capable doctor but he felt extremely pleased whenever Sherlock complimented him- or did something as close to complimenting as Sherlock Holmes could. It made him feel special, mostly because Sherlock rarely commented on anyone else's intelligence or capability unless he was insulting them. But there was something incredible about how certain Sherlock sounded whenever he said anything like that. "Fine," he huffed, "but you're doing everything I tell you to."  
  
"I'm fine with that," Sherlock said as he dragged John into a cab, "but right now Lestrade is waiting for us at the crime scene."  
  
  
There were cases that were easily solved after a few experiments and examinations, some that didn't even require them to leave the crime scene, but this one was not one of them. After identifying the suspect Sherlock and John had to chase him through street after street, using Sherlock's brilliant mind to cut him off, and then finally deliver him to Scotland Yard.  
  
It was now, five hours later, that John finally realized how much he'd missed this. The rush of adrenaline that came from the chase was exhilarating and he was glad he could share it with Sherlock again.  
  
They strolled out of the cab and John leaned slightly on Sherlock as they made their way to the door, something the detective didn't miss.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," John tried to dismiss, but Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said that he knew it wasn't true. "I think I pulled a muscle in my back."  
  
"You're out of practice," Sherlock mocked, though he did run his hand gently up and down John's back.  
  
"I like to think you keep me in shape," John said, and they both laughed as they made their way upstairs.  
  
As per usual the first thing they did was remove their jackets and put the kettle on. John kept rubbing at his back, but it was a difficult spot to reach. He took a couple of tablets for the pain, hoping that they would actually help, and prepared their tea.  
  
Sherlock came over and stood behind him. He brought his hands up to John's back and started rubbing, trying to reach the spot that seemed to be troubling John. After finishing preparing the tea John dropped his head back against Sherlock's chest and relaxed into the touch. "A little lower," he said.  
  
Sherlock moved his hands accordingly and John groaned in pain as he massaged the sore muscle. He stopped suddenly, spun John around and kissed him. "Get the tea, go upstairs and wait for me," Sherlock said.  
  
John did as he was told and when he reached the bedroom he got dressed in his pyjamas and waited for Sherlock to come back. He'd been enjoying the massage but he was reluctant to ask Sherlock for help so he just lay down in bed and tried to get comfortable.  
  
About ten minutes later he heard Sherlock's voice from just outside the bedroom.  
  
"What are you wearing?" he asked.  
  
"Really, Sherlock?"  
  
"Just answer the question," the detective insisted.  
  
"My pyjamas."  
  
"Good. Now lie on the bed, stomach down, and close your eyes." He waited a few seconds until he heard the rustling stop. "Have you done it?"  
  
"Yes," John shouted from the bedroom.  
  
John didn't open his eyes but he heard Sherlock getting changed and then felt the mattress dip slightly when Sherlock got on top of it. He straddled John's hips from behind and started pulling his shirt over his arms.  
  
"Sherlock, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm really not in the mood."  
  
"Be quiet, John. Try to relax."  
  
John complied, confident that Sherlock wouldn't do anything that he didn't want him to. He settled his arms along his torso and closed his eyes again. He didn't know what Sherlock had planned, but he was definitely curious. When he felt something cold and liquid on his back he started to get the picture.  
  
Sherlock rubbed the substance over John's skin and then started rubbing his hands up and down John's back, taking special care when he got to the pulled muscle. John hissed in pain, but made no other complaints. He knew it was going to hurt, he was just glad that Sherlock was making it better.  
  
"How does that feel?" Sherlock asked as he continued kneading John's muscles.  
  
"Lovely," John slurred. His eyes were closed, his breathing was slow and he felt completely relaxed. Sherlock was doing an amazing job with his hands and John wondered where he'd learned all of that.  
  
Sherlock moved his hands over John's back again and again, putting pressure and massaging every muscle and working away at the pulled one. Once he was satisfied it was as good as it was going to get he started working on John's neck and his shoulders, applying the same attention.  
  
John was pliant and quiet beneath him and Sherlock wondered if he'd fallen asleep. When he finished the massage he put his dressing gown on and laid himself over John's back, covering him completely. He started laying soft kisses along John's shoulders and as much of his neck as he could reach until he felt the doctor stirring beneath him.  
  
"Still with me?" he asked, but John only grunted in return, he would be asleep in less than five minutes. Sherlock got off the bed and went downstairs to fetch a heat pack and a towel which he promptly brought over to the room.  
  
John was lying in exactly the same position, right in the middle of the bed, so Sherlock slowly nudged him over to his side. He then wrapped the heat pack around the towel to ensure that it didn't burn John's skin and settled it over his back. After turning the lights off he lay on his side of the bed and pulled the sheets up, making sure they covered John completely.  
  
He leaned over and laid a soft kiss on John's temple. "Goodnight, John."  
  
  
John came downstairs in the morning to find Sherlock poring over a case file at his table.  
  
"Good morning," he announced and made his way over to the bathroom. Sherlock did not respond; he didn't even seem to have noticed John coming into the room, which was unusual.  
  
When he came back into the living room again Sherlock was in the exact same position. He walked up behind him and slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist at which point Sherlock jumped up slightly, clearly startled.  
  
"John," he exclaimed, "how long have you been here?"  
  
"Not long," John said and kissed Sherlock lightly. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Case."  
  
"Alright then." John let go of Sherlock and went to the kitchen to make some tea and breakfast. "Have you eaten anything yet?"  
  
"Not hungry."  
  
John sighed and made breakfast just for himself but still prepared some tea for Sherlock. It was the one thing he could convince him to have when he was working on a case. He left it on Sherlock's desk and start preparing himself for work.  
  
After having a shower and getting dressed he said goodbye to Sherlock, who was still staring intently at the case file, and left for work.  
  
He spent most of the day seeing patients and only had a small break at lunch where he barely had time to eat. He contemplated texting Sherlock to ask how the case was going but he had been so fixated on it that John doubted Sherlock would even hear his phone. He hadn't seen Sherlock this enthralled in a case for a while and while he was glad that he was busy, he was worried that the detective would once again start ignoring his body's needs.  
  
Arriving home he noted that Sherlock was suspiciously absent from the living room and a search of the rest of the house showed that he wasn't there either. After getting his laptop to update his blog John text him.  
  
 **Planning on coming home tonight? JW**  
  
The reply came in surprisingly quick.  
  
 **In a few hours. SH**  
  
John checked the time over and over again for the next five hours, but Sherlock still hadn't shown up. By 2am he decided to go to bed and hope that Sherlock would be back by morning. He was not disappointed.  
  
He came down to find photos and papers spilled all over the floor and stuck to the walls. Sherlock himself was dressed in just his trousers and shirt and was running between his laptop and the papers spilled on the floor. This time though, he did notice John coming into the room.  
  
"John, I need your help!" he shouted as he grabbed John by the shoulders.  
  
"Good morning to you too."  
  
"Yes, yes, good morning, John," Sherlock blurted out, "Get dressed, I need you to go to Lestrade and bring back all the evidence from the victim's house. Everything!"  
  
"How much coffee have you had already, Sherlock?" he asked, noticing how energized and jumpy he was.  
  
"Lots. Go. Evidence. Now."  
  
An hour later John was coming up to the house in Lestrade's car which was filled with boxes of evidence they had for Sherlock to look over. They brought everything upstairs and for the remainder of the day Sherlock took everything out and settled it on every surface he could find. The living room was filled with papers and evidence, as was the kitchen and Sherlock was now even using his room to work.  
  
The next three days were the same. Sherlock still hadn't slept and had barely eaten but he finally seemed closer to solving the case. John had done all he could to help and seeing as he didn't have work this week he went to the pub with some old friends.  
  
To say that he was shocked when Sherlock came in to the very same pub was an understatement.  
  
"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" John exclaimed, walking over to meet Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him in for a long kiss. John wasn't one for public displays of affection but after days spent sleeping alone and barely talking to Sherlock he was glad to have his detective back.  
  
"I solved the case, and you weren't there."  
  
"I told you I was going out."  
  
"You did?" Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely surprised.  
  
"Of course I did, you idiot," John replied affectionately and brought Sherlock over to the table where he was sat with his friends. "C'mon, I want you to meet some of the guys."  
  
The night went surprisingly well, Sherlock- mostly- refraining from deducing all of John's friends and even having a couple of drinks with them. John had more than a couple, but he wasn't quite drunk yet. Nevertheless he missed Sherlock and as soon as they breached the threshold of 221 Baker Street John had him up against the wall.  
  
Their kisses were needy and sloppy as they made their way up to their room seeing as it was the only room in the house that wasn't littered with evidence. Their clothes slipped off somewhere on their journey upstairs and they fell in bed together.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock's head lay in John's lap, his legs stretched and his feet dangling off the edge of the bed. John himself was nearly sitting up against the headboard, his hands resting on Sherlock's soft curls. The night before, after Sherlock found John at the pub, had been spent entirely in bed where they had stroked and kissed every inch of the others body, reveling in the sensations under their fingertips and the sounds elicited from lips muffled by the soft sheets and pillows.  
  
They had spent hours in bed, only falling asleep as the Sun came up and dim light was streaming in through the window. They were both naked atop the sheets, having succumbed to sleep, tired from the case and their late night activities, before either had a chance to slip under the covers. Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John's waist and laid his head on his lap and John had drifted off running his hands through his hair. It was that same way now that he woke up.  
  
The noises from the outside world and the light brought him back to consciousness and he stared down at the peaceful face of one Sherlock Holmes. He could never get tired of watching him like this. It was one of the very rare occasions where Sherlock looked truly relaxed. Even when they were laying on the sofa quietly John could tell Sherlock was always thinking and it showed on the twitch of his lips or the nearly imperceptible narrowing of his eyes. Now though, his muscles were completely relaxed, all soft features and sharp bones. John thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful; a contradiction.  
  
The man who claimed not to feel, the self-proclaimed sociopath, felt things deeper than anyone else. The man who claimed to only have one friend had sacrificed himself for the life of three. The man who closed himself off from everyone had opened himself up to one entirely and unconditionally.  
  
It was thoughts like these that made John realize how special Sherlock was, and how special John must be to him. He had been surprised when Sherlock had first told him he loved him because he never thought Sherlock would admit it to anyone, much less himself, but John had not hesitated to return the sentiment. What was love if not sacrifice, forgiveness and devotion? And hadn't Sherlock sacrificed himself? Hadn't John forgiven him? Hadn't they devoted their lives to one another?  
  
Sherlock shifted under him and John started stroking his fingers softly from his cheekbone down to his jaw, over and over again, trying to sooth him back to sleep before he fully woke up. Even though Sherlock rarely showed it John could tell when he needed sleep, desperately, and today was one of those days. Any other time Sherlock would be up before John, making tea or breakfast or just laying languidly across the sofa. Today, however, Sherlock was still out to the world. John felt himself dozing off again, the quiet and stillness dragging him under and he didn't fight it. He didn't want to move and wake Sherlock up, and there wasn't much else he could do.  
  
When he woke up again he looked down at Sherlock to see a pair of eyes staring intently at him. Sherlock's hands were clutching at John's who were now resting on the detective's pale and exposed chest. When Sherlock saw John looking down at him he smiled a sleepy smile back at John's radiant one.  
  
"Good morning," Sherlock said quietly, voice still raspy from sleep.  
  
"I think it's safe to say good afternoon now," John replied.  
  
"How long was I asleep?"  
  
John grabbed his phone from the bedside table and checked the time before replying. "About 10 hours, how are you feeling?"  
  
"Sleepy."  
  
John chuckled and gently nudged Sherlock's head out of his lap. The detective collapsed back on the pillow after John left the bed. "I'll be right back," he said as he left the room.  
  
Sherlock was used to fighting his body when it came to sleep but he could only fight it for so long, and when he finally gave in he was dragged under until his body was satisfied it didn't need any more rest. Even after he woke up from his 'post-case crash' he felt sluggish and slow, his body and mind still recovering from the overload and slowly returning to normal again. He was glad to have John with him at times like these- he was glad to have John with him all the time- because he always knew exactly what Sherlock needed. A day spent quietly in bed eating, talking, dozing off and just generally recovering to his normal hyper-aware and accelerated state of being. And what Sherlock needed John provided.  
  
The good doctor came back into the room- still completely naked, Sherlock noted happily- with a large tray filled with food. Anything and everything that Sherlock might want to eat, including their own little indulgence.  
  
"Is there any food left in the kitchen?"  
  
"I don't think so. Does that mean you'll actually come with me when I go shopping?" John asked hopefully.  
  
"I could be persuaded."  
  
"Why must you be so obstinate?" John sighed.  
  
"Because you love it," Sherlock replied as he raised himself up from the bed and stole a kiss from John's lips.  
  
Before Sherlock had a chance to pull away John grabbed him and wrapped the detective's arms around his waist, effectively bringing him closer. The breakfast tray lay precariously on the edge of the bed as Sherlock balanced himself on his knees, chest pressed close to John's, and they remained connected by their lips. Tongues slipped out and teeth clashed as their kisses deepened, desire and need clear in the way their tongues rolled together and fought for dominance over the kiss.  
  
They finally emerged from the kiss breathing heavily, slightly flushed, and content. Their foreheads touched and their eyes opened and John saw Sherlock grinning widely against his lips. "What are you so happy about?"  
  
"I'm thinking."  
  
"About?"  
  
"You."  
  
"What about me?" John whispered, lips inching closer and closer to Sherlock's.  
  
"How good you are to me." Sherlock kissed his lips. "How you always know what I need." His jaw. "How you always get me what I need." His neck. "How you never ask for anything in return." His collarbone. "And just how much I love you."  
  
John cupped Sherlock's face with his hands and brought it up to meet his own. Sherlock's gaze settled on John and he felt butterflies in his stomach at the sheer intensity of it; at the unadulterated and fierce need in his eyes.  
  
"I love you so much, Sherlock. You know that, don't you?"  
  
"I know."  
  
Their lips met once again in a quick kiss and they wrapped their arms around each other, John's chin resting on Sherlock's head which was lying against John's chest. After a brief squeeze they detached themselves, Sherlock sitting back on his heels on the bed.  
  
"What do you say we devour every single piece of food in this tray?" John asked.  
  
"I say it's well overdue."  
  
They spent the remainder of the afternoon- or what little was left of it- eating the food John had made for them. At some point the tray was discarded on the floor and the whipped cream was pulled out. Sherlock squirted it all over John's body and then licked it slowly and diligently, enjoying the taste in his mouth and John's little moans of pleasure as Sherlock's tongue darted out and made contact with his skin.  
  
Hours later, as they lay in bed ready to fall asleep again with Sherlock cocooned under John's arm and their hands joined together on top of John's chest, they both finally seemed to realize how utterly content they would be to just lay in each other’s arms for the rest of their lives. A realization that sparked something in Sherlock's mind, as realizations often did.  
  
He knew that he didn't want to have anyone else by his side, but was he ready to take the next step? And more importantly, was John? They'd never spoken about marriage before, they'd never even discussed what they were to each other- because they already knew, they were everything- but other people wouldn't understand. Friend, not enough, boyfriend, too casual, partner, that always got the right idea across, but it was still not enough. He needed John to know how much he meant to him, he needed the world to know how much he meant, and no words or terms of endearment would ever be enough.  
  
It was in that moment that Sherlock Holmes decided, with utter surety, to propose to John Watson.  
  
It came as a surprise to him to realize how nervous he felt whenever he thought about it. He didn't know what he was going to do, and he had no idea whether or not John would agree; maybe it wasn't something he wanted in his life. He decided to bring it up to try to discern John's feelings on the subject. He took the chance about two weeks later when the case they had just solved involved a wife who had killed her husband when she found out he was cheating. Dull. Boring. Predictable. But very convenient for Sherlock at the moment.  
  
Sherlock sighed from his position on the sofa. He had his head on John's lap and his legs dangling off the edge. "Why do people insist on being so dull?"  
  
"What exactly are you complaining about now?" John asked.  
  
"Marriage. Why do people get married if they don't intend on staying faithful for any length of time?" As he spoke he opened his eyes and stared intently at John, trying to gauge John's attitude.  
  
"I'm pretty sure the intent is there, Sherlock, but things happen, people change, I suppose. I'm not making excuses for them, much less for murder, but not everything works out the way people expect it to."  
  
"So you never thought about marriage before, not with any of the abundant collection of girlfriend's you've had in the past?"  
  
John narrowed his eyes at him, both in suspicious and exasperation. "You're not still jealous just because I went out for coffee with Sarah last week, are you?"  
  
"Of course not, don't be absurd," Sherlock replied with a huff. "I'm just curious as to why a handsome man like you who's had a significant amount of lovers has never thought to take the relationship to the next step. Or have you"?  
  
"You think I'm handsome now, do you"? John replied with a grin.  
  
"Oh please, as if you didn't already know that. Now, are you going to answer my question or continue to bore me?"  
  
"I dunno, Sherlock, I guess it never felt right with any of them."  
  
"None?"  
  
"No. Why are you so concerned about this all of a sudden?" It wasn't exactly unusual for Sherlock to bring up any of a number of random subjects up when John was trying to watch telly, but this wasn't one he ever thought they would be discussing. But now that he really thought about it the idea did sound appealing. But Sherlock had already clearly voiced his displeasure, and John allowed his hopes to simmer down again.  
  
"I'm not concerned, I'm simply asking." And so the subject was dropped.  
  
John had sounded hopeful for a few moments. His eyes bore into Sherlock and he'd swallowed nervously after he asked why Sherlock was concerned about marriage. Could he have been thinking the same as him? It was then Sherlock realized that, short of mind reading or outright asking, there would be no way of knowing, so he moved forward with his plan.  
  
He grudgingly accepted the fact that he would need to talk to someone before actually proposing, if only to make sure he didn't completely mess it up, and started evaluating his choices. Lestrade would tease him incessantly, Mrs Hudson and Molly would both beam so much every time they saw them together they would probably give everything away in a heartbeat. There was no one else; he would have to go to Mycroft.  
  
In one of the rare days where John went to work at the clinic Sherlock went over to the Diogenes Club to meet with Mycroft. He wasn't fond of the idea as he knew his brother would be terribly smug about the whole thing, but he was his brother, and even if only due to family obligation he would help him.  
  
Mycroft looked incredibly surprised when he saw Sherlock standing at the door of his office though Sherlock wasn't certain how genuine the surprise was.  
  
"Sherlock, what have you done to John this time? Hopefully you didn't get him kidnapped again."  
  
"Don't make jokes, Mycroft. John's at work, you know that perfectly well," Sherlock replied, annoyed at the amount of security his brother had on both himself and John, though admittedly it could be helpful sometimes. "I need your help."  
  
The shock that passed over his brother's face at his honest and blatant plea would have been amusing had he not been so nervous. Mycroft signaled for Sherlock to come in and sit down before he closed the door and sat at his own desk. Sherlock, however, decided to start pacing the room in agitation instead of sitting down.  
  
Mycroft was getting worried at the state Sherlock was in. It wasn't often he allowed others to see how agitated he was, much less Mycroft, and he was starting to wonder if his problem was more serious than he had first thought. Before he could even ask what was wrong Sherlock stopped pacing and blurted it out.  
  
"I'm going to ask John to marry me."  
  
Shock and surprise passed over Mycroft's face once again before his expression settled on something much more amiable; happiness. He had always felt that John Watson had been a sort of blessing in Sherlock's life, someone he could depend on to help him look after his little brother, and he had not been mistaken. That Sherlock was finally realizing how much John meant to him and was actually doing something about made him feel extremely pleased.  
  
He walked over to Sherlock who had resumed his pacing and settled his hands over his brother's shoulders, effectively stopping him in place. In an extremely rare show of affection that neither would forget he embraced his brother lightly. "Congratulations, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock stood open mouthed for a few seconds before returning the pressure of his brother's hug. When they broke off he was surprised to see that Mycroft was smiling.  
  
"What can I do for you then?"  
  
"I..." Sherlock hesitated, still stunned at the lack of mockery from his brother, "I don't know what to do," he finally admitted.  
  
They spent the next couple of hours quietly in Mycroft's office discussing preparations. Sherlock was surprised at how much Mycroft seemed to know about proposals, though he was certain that he had never had occasion to contemplate them. Nevertheless his knowledge was gratefully accepted and Sherlock finally decided that he was going to propose on their six month anniversary, which just so happened to be the day after John's birthday. He had just under three months to think of the perfect opportunity, to plan it and also to plan John's birthday. He still didn't know if John would say yes, but he did know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was what he wanted, and he would try his hardest to make it come true.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock, ever the master of disguise, had been able to keep John in the dark in regards to his birthday party. When the day finally came Sherlock got up early and made breakfast which he took up to their bedroom and delivered to a sleepy John. The rest of the day was spent mostly kissing, cuddling and lazing about the flat.  
  
And while much didn’t happen, John wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to plan anything exuberant and while part of him wanted to go out somewhere, and maybe get a few drinks, he didn’t want to have to leave Sherlock’s side. At the end of the day, just as he was about to get up to make dinner, there was a quick knock on their door before Lestrade walked in.  
  
He gazed around the room quickly and John noted how Lestrade and Sherlock shared an amused look before the detective inspector’s eyes fell on him. John was mildly worried.  
  
“Are you ready?” Lestrade asked.  
  
John looked between the two detectives, growing ever more concerned about what they had planned. “Ready for what, exactly?”  
  
“You didn’t honestly think you were going to spend your birthday at home, did you?” Before John had a chance to answer Lestrade shoved John’s coat at him and nearly pushed him out the door.  
  
“But, Sherlock-” John started, “Sherlock, are you coming?”  
  
Lestrade had the good sense of waiting downstairs as Sherlock came over to say goodbye to John.  
  
“No, I’m staying here. Go out, have fun. I’ll be here when you get back,” he said reassuringly and kissed John lightly before nudging him towards the waiting Lestrade.  
  
It seemed John had no choice in the matter. “I’ll see you later then.”  
  
And so John and Lestrade were off to the pub where a few more of John’s friends were waiting. Sherlock figured it would be best for John to spend some time with his friends on his birthday instead of just spending the whole day around the flat. No matter how much he loved having John to himself he recognised that John needed to spend time with his other friends as well, and this was the perfect opportunity; especially because Sherlock needed time to plan for the next day.  
  
He hadn’t planned anything overly complicated. He was nervous enough as it was, there was no point in making more trouble for himself. Even so, he thought he’d planned a pleasant day, hopefully one that John wouldn’t forget.  
  
Time passed surprisingly quickly. After months spent away from John, Sherlock was now painfully aware of his absence. There had been many times in the past when Sherlock hadn’t noticed John going out, even if he told him beforehand. Now, however, there were very few times when the detective didn’t know where John was.  
  
With his thoughts concentrated on the proposal and their anniversary Sherlock barely noticed when John walked in the door.  
  
He came straight over to Sherlock who had been sitting in his chair visiting his mind palace and his plans for tomorrow. He sat down on Sherlock’s lap and brought his hands up and over Sherlock’s shoulders, embracing him. He laid his head down on the crook of Sherlock’s neck and planted a soft kiss there.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock brought his own arms around John and started stroking slowly up and down his back. “For what?” he asked.  
  
“For today, it was perfect,” John replied, “I got to spend time with you, I got to have a few drinks with my mates, and now I have you for the rest of the night.”  
  
“Yes, you do,” Sherlock confirmed and slid one arm under John’s back and the other under his knees and, bringing himself to a standing position, carried a surprised John Watson up the stairs.  
  
Sherlock spent the rest of the night lavishing his attention on John.  
  
When morning came he quietly left the bed once again to prepare breakfast. John was still out to the world when Sherlock returned to the bedroom but the scent of coffee seemed to awaken him.  
  
“Morning,” John mumbled, turning his head to look at Sherlock who was carrying a tray of food. “Two mornings in a row,” he exclaimed, “I must be sick.”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and the doctor chuckled in amusement. He sat up on the bed and gave Sherlock a long lingering kiss. “Happy anniversary.”  
  
“Happy anniversary, John,” Sherlock returned.  
  
“I’m starving,” John announced and dug into his food straight away. Sherlock however, was still sitting rather awkwardly by the edge of the bed and staring intently at the wall. “What’s the matter?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head and smiled at John. “Nothing, I’m fine.”  
  
John nudged over closer to Sherlock and took the detective’s hand in his own. “Sherlock, I’m not expecting anything special today, alright? You don’t have to worry about anything.”  
  
“I know, John. I know,” Sherlock replied. Little did John know what Sherlock was truly worried about. But the detective was glad to know that his proposal would come as a surprise, John definitely wasn’t expecting anything at all.  
  
After their late breakfast they both got dressed and went to the park. The day was relatively sunny- as sunny as London could be- and John insisted that they go out for at least an hour. Regardless of his insistence that he wasn’t expecting anything John had booked a table for them at a restaurant which he managed to steer Sherlock towards during their walk without raising suspicion.  
  
“Very impressive, John,” Sherlock noted after they had sat down at their table, “I thought you really just wanted to go for a walk.”  
  
“Should I be offended that it’s taken me this long to impress you?”  
  
Sherlock grinned. “You’ve been doing it since day one, John, I shouldn’t worry.”  
  
John reached across the table to kiss Sherlock, their hands entwined under the table. Once John became conscious of where they were he broke the kiss apart and sat back looking slightly flushed. Sherlock just looked amused.  
  
It was late afternoon once they reached Baker Street. John had spent a long time at the restaurant trying to coax Sherlock into eating an acceptable amount of food and even managed to convince him to share a dessert.  
  
They had gone the long way around back to the flat, and John was satisfied with an anniversary well spent. There had been no emergency calls or cases, which was surprising, but a welcome reprise. He had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock had ensured they would be left alone.  
  
As soon as the door to their flat was open Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and John stood rather nervously by his chair waiting for him to return. Even though he wasn’t expecting anything in return he had gotten Sherlock a present and he was slightly worried that the detective wouldn’t think much of it.  
  
After about ten minutes Sherlock finally came back into the living room. He had taken off his shoes and suit jacket and was looking rather warm.  
  
“What were you doing in there?” John asked.  
  
“You’ll see in a minute,” Sherlock replied. He then realised that John was leaning on his chair with one of his hands behind his back. “What are you hiding?”  
  
“Just hmm, just a little something I bought for you.” John stood up and retrieved a large rectangular box from his chair and handed it over to Sherlock who was standing there looking stunned at the offering. “Sherlock?”  
  
“You bought me a gift,” Sherlock exclaimed, sounding genuinely shocked.  
  
“Of course I did, it’s our anniversary! Just take it, it doesn’t bite. And no deducing, just open the damn thing.”  
  
John stood by nervously as Sherlock slowly pealed the wrapping paper away from the box containing a brand new violin case. He didn’t know what else to get Sherlock aside from possibly some fresh organs, but that was usually Molly’s doing, and he wanted to get him something he could keep.  
  
Sherlock’s violin had been kept in its old case in the back of his closet during his absence, and John thought it was time for a new one.  
  
“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly when Sherlock stood there gazing at the case.  
  
Slowly Sherlock put the case down and walked over to John. He laid a soft kiss on his lips before finally replying. “I love it. Thank you, John.” He then strode purposefully over to the window where his violin was kept and using the bow motioned for John to sit down. As soon as he did so Sherlock positioned himself, closed his eyes and began to play.  
  
John had heard Sherlock play a number of different melodies on the violin over the time they had lived together, some even that Sherlock had composed himself, but he had never heard this one before, and he’d certainly never seen Sherlock play like this. His eyes were closed and his body was swaying in time with the delicate music being played. Even behind closed eyes John could tell that Sherlock was concentrated solely on the violin and nothing else. It was as though there was nothing and no one else in the room, nothing else in his mind, just the melody.  
  
In truth, there was nothing else in Sherlock’s mind but John. And he drew on every emotion, every feeling and thought and memory and he played. He played for John like he’d never played for anyone before, exposing himself and everything he was feeling, hoping to convey in music the thoughts that he sometimes couldn’t convey in words.  
  
John sat down on his chair, enjoying the beautiful notes Sherlock was playing and observing him playing them. He had a soft smile on his face and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. When he finally finished he set the violin down carefully on his brand new case and then sat down on his own chair across from John.  
  
“I didn’t know what to get you, so I wrote something for you.”  
  
John stood up and crossed the small distance between the two armchairs before straddling Sherlock and wrapping his arms around the detective. “It was beautiful, I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Thank you.” He pulled back and kissed Sherlock on the lips, his hands quickly moving to the back of the detective’s head to find the right angle to deepen the kiss. Sherlock’s tongue met his and soon the room was filled with little moans being pulled out of John.  
  
Eventually Sherlock pulled John away and motioned for him to stand up. “I have something to show you, come on.” He walked them all the way to the bathroom where the tub had been filled with water and even some bubbles.  
  
Sherlock started slowly divesting John of his clothes. He started with the jumper and shirt, leaving a trail of kisses down John’s chest until he reached his trousers, at which point he undid the belt and started lowering them down John’s legs. John, in turn, toed off his shoes so that Sherlock could get his trousers past his ankles. After removing his socks John applied the same treatment to Sherlock until they were both completely naked.  
  
Sherlock lowered himself into the tub and John followed, resting his back on the detective’s chest once they were both seated. Sherlock was carefully collecting water in his own hands and letting it run down John’s shoulders and arms while John rubbed small circles on Sherlock’s thighs.  
  
Neither of them spoke, or felt the need to fill the silence with words. They simply enjoyed the other’s company until Sherlock finally broke the silence.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Are you happy… with me?” he asked, “Being in a relationship with me, I mean.”  
  
“Of course I am, Sherlock. Where’s this coming from?” He turned around, now sitting between Sherlock’s legs. He lifted his hands up to the detective’s face and started gently stroking it. Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes.  
  
There was an infinite amount of things he loved doing with John, and there was an infinite amount of things he loved that John did to him, but this had to be one of his absolute favourites. John’s touch always seemed to awaken something within him. Some great urge and need to feel loved and warm and protected, and John always delivered.  
  
In these small moments Sherlock allowed himself to slip away from his own mind, clearing it of all thoughts and just concentrating on the warmth of John’s hand against his skin. The small contact was enough to propel him to finally answer the question.  
  
“I’m not used to people enjoying my company, much less for such a prolonged amount of time,” he finally admitted. “You’re still a mystery to me, John Watson.”  
  
“Well, I have to keep things interesting, don’t I?” John teased. When Sherlock didn’t react he started getting worried. “Is everything alright, Sherlock? You’re asking weird questions and you’re strangely quiet.”  
  
“I’m always quiet.”  
  
John laughed. “You’re really not, unless you’re thinking. Are you thinking?”  
  
“I’m always thinking.”  
  
“About me?”  
  
“It’s always you.”  
  
They both smiled at the recollection of a former conversation and Sherlock finally opened his eyes. John was staring intently at him, his hand still resting on Sherlock’s cheek. If the perfect moment was ever going to arise Sherlock doubted it would be better than this.  
  
“John, will you marry me?”  
  
John didn’t think he’d ever been quite so shocked by a question before. He felt like his brain was completely frozen, still trying to work through the words he had just heard- or thought he heard. Had Sherlock really just proposed? If he had he should probably answer soon or Sherlock would get the wrong idea, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work.  
  
The relief that had come from finally asking John to marry him was quickly replaced with sheer and utter panic after John didn’t reply. He just sat there looking completely dumbfound and not moving a single muscle.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity John finally blinked, his hand moved from Sherlock’s face to his hair and John closed the small distance between them, bringing his lips together with Sherlock’s. When he finally pulled away he uttered a single word, wrapping them both in warmth and desire and love.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
That single word sent a rush through Sherlock. He could barely make out all the emotions that were going through him right now, but the most prominent ones seemed to be relief and sheer happiness.  
  
He was infinitely relived that John had said yes and that he hadn’t pushed things too far or too early. John really wanted this for them. And soon after that realisation came the happiness. Looking forward to all the years spent solving crimes by John’s side, looking forward to all the time they would spend together, all the things they would do.  
  
John’s hand was still tangled in Sherlock’s hair and the detective thought only for a brief second before bringing their lips together in a deep kiss. It felt different somehow, than the last time they had kissed. Not because anything had changed between them, but because something had changed in Sherlock.  
  
For all his self-confidence and arrogance in the face of insults and danger Sherlock had always been worried that he wouldn’t be a good partner for John. Sentiment had never been his area but John had certainly helped him navigate his feelings. Not only that but John brought out the need for Sherlock to express his own feelings for him, something he had never wanted to do before. There weren’t many people out there he liked- certainly no one he liked as much as John- but he tolerated a few. However, when John was around he always felt the need to tell him, or at least show him, how much Sherlock appreciated and loved him.  
  
His worry had started to lessen a few weeks after his return seeing as John seemed happy with the way their relationship was going, but the niggling worry was always in the back of his mind.  
  
But now all that was swept away. He was certain that he could do this with John by his side. He knew that he belonged by John’s side, and together they could face anything. Sherlock was stronger when they were together; he could concentrate more, he was more human, more caring and more himself. He didn’t feel the need to hide part of himself behind a mask anymore because he felt accepted, and that gave him the strength to face whatever was out there in the world for him.  
  
While Sherlock contemplated this John was thinking about something completely different.  
  
“I guess I’m not a bachelor anymore.”  
  
“You’re my bachelor.”  
  
John shook his head in amusement. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
In a split second the room was filled with laughter. Sherlock was so relieved and so happy that anything could make him laugh right now, but the sound of John’s laughter seemed to propel his own to continue and suddenly he couldn’t stop. He laughed with joy and happiness and relief and excitement. John did the same, his brain only now catching up with the reality that he was engaged to the man he loved.  
  
When the laughter finally subsided he turned around and lay back down on Sherlock’s chest, content to lie in the warm water for a little longer. Sherlock held him tightly in his arms, unwilling to let go of John.  
  
“When are we going to tell people?” John asked.  
  
“We shouldn’t have to,” Sherlock replied. Before John had a chance to question what he said he was pushed forward slightly so that Sherlock could reach over the bathtub into his discarded trousers.  
  
All the while John was watching him and his mouth fell open comically when Sherlock revealed a ring. When the detective sat back down he looked up at John smiling widely and picked up his hand, holding it gently in his own.  
  
“May I?” he asked.  
  
John swallowed, trying to keep the tears at bay. It wasn’t often that he cried, if at all, but the proposal and now the ring- which for some reason he hadn’t been expecting- brought all these emotions tumbling down around him and he could barely control himself. He nodded slightly.  
  
Sherlock slid the ring easily into John’s finger and pressed a small kiss to John’s lips when he was finished, still holding his hand. “It’s been in the family for years. I never thought I’d used it.”  
  
John freed his hand from Sherlock’s and brought it up to the detective’s face. “I’m glad you did.”


	20. Chapter 20

There had been many times when John Watson had thought about marriage. When he got his first girlfriend he wondered if they would remain together long enough to contemplate the union, when his sister got married he started questioning whether or not he would ever do the same and as he lay bleeding surrounded by gunfire he resigned himself to the fact that maybe marriage just wasn’t in the cards for him.  
  
At first he told himself that he was waiting for the right woman to come along, afterwards he told himself that if he jumped into a serious commitment after coming out of a stressful event it wouldn’t be real, but after meeting Sherlock Holmes his life became one stressful event after another. As his feeling for his flatmate grew more than a little platonic he completely disregarded the thought of marriage. He always assumed he would be too busy, or the one person he would never be too busy for just wouldn’t be interested.  
  
He should have known better than to think he could predict life with Sherlock Holmes. His thoughts had vaguely wondered back to marriage after Sherlock’s casual mention. In retrospect it was clear he should have realised there was something strange about that. Sherlock liked to complain about everything, that was never surprising, but it wasn’t often that he asked how John felt about it. He usually assumed John agreed or waited until he voiced his opinion. That time, however, he had asked John rather eagerly, clearly anticipating the response. But John’s mind had missed the strangeness of Sherlock’s behaviour in lieu of the strangeness of the question itself.  
  
When Sherlock proposed John suddenly saw their whole life together, side-by-side in vivid detail, something he had never allowed himself to do before. He had been utterly unprepared for it and the question had frozen him on the spot, something he now realised was probably a bit not good and had most likely worried Sherlock. But there hadn’t been a shadow of doubt in his mind when he had said yes; yes to spending the rest of his life with the madman, yes to showing the world how much they truly meant to each other, yes to officially becoming Sherlock’s other half. Not that they needed marriage to tell them any of that, they’d known that long before, when they realised how much they truly meant to each other and how much they complemented each other. The detective and the doctor, side by side.  
  
Marriage did serve, however, as a reason to bring everyone together to celebrate them as a couple. Sherlock, of course, despised social gatherings of any kind, but John knew that deep down he was enjoying this. Their special day, where they had confessed their love for each other, exchanged vows, exchanged rings, had sealed their lives together again. Just like so many events before had; a bullet to the shoulder, walk through the park, a nice little flat. Then grimmer times had come; a bomb, a woman, a hound, a fall. And the return had brought them closer together than ever before. It only made sense that this latest act should come of their own free will with no threats or sacrifices necessary, just the two of them.  
  
It was still early in the morning when John woke up in his husband’s arms. Husband. The word brought a swell of happiness along with it every time. For so long he had wanted Sherlock, longed for him, his company, his attention, his love, and now he had it. He had all of him, forever.  
  
Sherlock’s right arm was stretched across the bed beneath the crook of John’s neck and his left arm was wrapped around John’s waist. He took the opportunity to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s and bring it close to his chest. He felt the smooth metal of his husband’s wedding ring, placed in Sherlock’s elegant and long finger by John.  
  
The image brought memories from their wedding day back to the forefront of his mind. The jitters, the anxiety, the swell of expectation and finally the moment when he saw Sherlock, elegantly dressed in a suit, tailored to curve around his long, lean body, smiling expectantly up at him. Everything felt just right in that moment. He and Sherlock were about to promise to spend the rest of their lives together. It was something that John had been looking for throughout his whole life, no matter how much he tried to deny it, and now he had the perfect man right in front of him, just as eager and expectant of what lay ahead for them.  
  
A lot of promises were made that day, many of which- if not all- had been all but unspoken in their time together already, because they had never needed words to communicate before. They simply knew what the other felt, thought or needed because they knew each other so well, and because deep down, they felt the same, and they understood.  
  
There was one thing though, that John had fervently insisted that Sherlock needed to promise; that he would be exceedingly cautious about losing or damaging his wedding ring. To this day Sherlock hadn’t had to remove it once.  
  
John felt Sherlock stirring against him, bringing John back to the present moment. The detective curled up slightly in bed, bringing the two of them closer together.  
  
“John?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.  
  
John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand and started stroking it. “I’m here, Sherlock.”  
  
“Hm,” the detective murmured, “love you.”  
  
“I love you too, now go back to sleep.”  
  
Without needing to be told twice the detective went back to sleep, nuzzling John’s neck from behind.  
  
Their room was bathed in silence once again for the next half an hour, Sherlock still asleep and John still happily thinking about their wedding and the enjoying the feel of Sherlock all around him when the sound of a phone ringing broke through the quiet haze.   
  
John reluctantly let go of Sherlock and got up, picking up the ringing phone on his way out of the room, silently hoping that it wouldn’t wake up the detective.  
  
“Hello,” he answered.  
  
 _“John?”_ Lestrade replied on the other hand, sounding confused. It was only then that John realised it was Sherlock’s phone that had been ringing, and not his own.  
  
“Yeah, Sherlock’s asleep. What is it?”  
  
 _“I’ve got a case I could use some help on.”_  
  
After a short relay of the facts John deemed the case a 7 which would hopefully get Sherlock out of bed and to the crime scene. He should have known it would never be that easy.  
  
When he walked back inside their room he saw Sherlock laying stomach down completely stretched across the bed.  
  
Deciding that a direct approach would be best he opened the curtains, letting all the morning light in, and stripped the sheets off Sherlock’s body in one swift move. The detective woke up, clearly annoyed at the light and cold, and started shouting at John.  
  
“Close the damn curtains!”  
  
John chuckled, unfazed by Sherlock’s words, and sat down next to the grumbling detective in a scarce patch of emptiness on the bed. “Come on, get up. We have a case.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied, “I want to go back to sleep. Give me back the sheets.”  
  
“It’s a seven.”  
  
John noted amusedly how Sherlock stopped squirming in bed and narrowed his eyes. “A seven?”  
  
“Yes,” John confirmed, “I assumed you wouldn’t get out of bed for anything less than that.”  
  
And he’d assumed correctly. While Sherlock may be reluctant to go to bed at times, once he found himself there it was rather difficult to get him out, especially when he had a certain army doctor in his arms. “I still don’t want to get out of bed.”  
  
“Well, I’ve already told Lestrade we’d be there, so you have to.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Yes, you do.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Make me.”  
  
That was all the invitation John needed. He lunged forward, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and dragged him off the bed. His grip on Sherlock wasn’t the best and the detective was squirming against him and they both quickly tumbled to the floor laughing.  
  
When the laughter subsided John picked himself up and helped Sherlock off the floor. As soon as he did so Sherlock threw him down on the bed and climbed on top of him, a wide grin plastered on his face.  
  
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked.  
  
But Sherlock didn’t do anything. He simply sat on John’s lap looking down at him. As the moments passed Sherlock’s grin turned into a soft smile that had John wondering what exactly was going on in his husband’s head.  
  
Before he had a chance to ask, Sherlock cut him off. “I was worried, you know.”  
  
“About what?” John asked, surprised that Sherlock was voicing such a thought, no matter what it was about.  
  
“That you would say no.”  
  
John frowned. He knew it must have been difficult for Sherlock to work up the courage to propose but he never would have thought that Sherlock might have been worried about rejection. “And why would I do that?”  
  
Sherlock fidgeted with the hem of John’s pyjama top, avoiding looking at John and avoiding the question. He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought up the subject, but somehow it felt strange to hide anything at all from John, even if there was nothing to do be done about it anymore.  
  
“I just…” Sherlock stammered, unsure of how to reply, “I didn’t know if it was something you’d want, much less with me. But… I thought that it would be better to ask and have you say no than to wonder what your answer would have been.”  
  
John sat up slightly, balancing himself on one elbow while he brought Sherlock down closer to him with the other. He kissed Sherlock, lightly at first, and then more passionately, pouring all the love and understanding and reassurance that he could into that kiss. Sherlock should know that John would never say no to him- to being with him- would never reject him. The thought was unfathomable.  
  
When they pulled apart Sherlock had a wide smile on his face. “That’s very reassuring,” he said.  
  
“Glad I could be of service,” John replied. He sat up on the bed, carefully pushing Sherlock out of his lap and they both stood up. “Time for a shower. Are you coming?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
John was, as always, quick in his shower but Sherlock lingered even after John left to get dressed. He stood under the spray of hot water, thinking back to the last few months. It hadn’t taken long to organise the wedding, thanks to the combined forces of Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, and while he was glad for it that did leave him with less time to get prepared mentally. He’d been the one to do the proposing but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous about the idea of marriage, because he was. But every time he started worrying that something would go wrong, or one of them would change their mind, or that he didn’t know what he was getting himself into John was always there.  
  
Sherlock didn’t even have to say anything, John just seemed to know whenever he was nervous or worried and always tried to comfort him, without making it too obvious, of course. But nevertheless he was always there when Sherlock needed him. And that was all it took to convince Sherlock that they were ready for this; they were ready for the next step, and they were going to take it together and everything was going to be just fine.  
  
He had stored all the memories of the wedding in John’s room in his mind palace, cherishing them forever. He had never deleted anything that pertained to John in any way, especially time that they had spent together, but this held a special place for him. Whenever he saw John’s wedding ring or his own, or their suits placed carefully in the closet, or the photo album Molly had so kindly organised for them all the memories came rushing back and he felt a swell of happiness.  
  
Never in his whole life had he even considered the thought of marriage, and seldom had he allowed himself to contemplate a relationship with anyone. He never thought he would be happy to spend so much time with any one person or that they would reciprocate the feeling, but John Watson was in a league of his own. He was everything Sherlock never thought he would have, and he turned out to be just what he needed. Someone who enjoyed the same things he did, someone who could appreciate him and not expect him to change but at the same time felt comfortable enough telling Sherlock whenever he did something that was a bit not good. And Sherlock cared enough to listen, which was what surprised him the most.  
  
Throughout the last three years he had grown to know and love John Watson for all his loyalty, intelligence and unpredictability- John Watson who, unlike love, was still a mystery to Sherlock- and the detective was looking forward to spending the rest of his days side by side with him.  
  
Finally realising how long he’d spent under the shower Sherlock turned off the water and got out, wrapping a towel around himself. As he made his way up the stairs to their room he saw John walking down towards the kitchen, no doubt on his way to make breakfast. Sherlock sneaked in a quick kiss before John left and then made his way to their room and quickly got dressed.  
  
His hair was still wet when he arrived in the kitchen and immediately went over to the fridge and took the milk out, placing it next to the two mugs John had already prepared, ready for when the kettle finished boiling. On the stove sat a pan filled with bacon and eggs which Sherlock kept an eye on as John finished preparing the tea.  
  
They both moved fluidly around the kitchen. John went back to his post by the stove as Sherlock got two plates and some cutlery out of the corresponding cupboard and drawer and placed them next to the stove. He grabbed the two mugs of tea and took them over to table. He was joined by John not a minute afterwards with two plates of food which they promptly started eating.  
  
“What did Lestrade tell you about the case?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John smirked. He’d been wondering exactly how long it would take until Sherlock asked about details of the case. He might have been reluctant to get out of bed but he was definitely interested in the case. “It’s a surprise.”  
  
“I don’t like surprises.”  
  
“Yeah, you do.”  
  
“A different kind, maybe, but not when it comes to a case.”  
  
They shared a knowing look across the table, clearly remembering quite a few times when Sherlock was more than happy with John’s surprises.  
  
“Today you’re just going to have to put up with it because you’re not finding out anything until you get to the crime scene.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.  
  
“Fine,” John returned.  
  
John tried to stifle a laugh at the look on Sherlock’s face. The detective looked both annoyed and amused at the same, a very interesting combination. It was clear he wanted to know about the case, but he seemed to want to humour John, so he just let it be.  
  
While John washed the dishes Sherlock checked his blog. There were a few cases that needed his attention, but they were all simple enough and he could easily solve them when he returned from the case with Lestrade tonight. He closed his laptop as John came back into the living room.  
  
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” John asked.  
  
“What?”  
  
Instead of replying John walked over to stand in front of Sherlock and started running his hands through the detective’s still wet curls doing his best to try to tame them in place. He would take any excuse he could to play with Sherlock’s hair, and the detective didn’t seem to mind either. He had his head in John’s chest as he continued running his hands through it slowly untangling it and watching as it curled back into place once his hands moved.  
  
Sherlock was still slumped against him when John stopped and placed his hands on the detective’s shoulders, squeezing slightly to get his attention. “We should go, Lestrade’s waiting.”  
  
Reluctantly Sherlock got up, ready to leave. He put on his coat and scarf as John opened the door and started walking downstairs, his own coat already on. Sherlock quickly caught up and managed to call a taxi while John was still locking the door.  
  
They rode silently in the backseat close together, thighs touching and hands held, and waited to finally arrive at the crime scene. John was surprised at how still and quiet Sherlock was seeing as he must have been anxious to arrive and learn all the details that John was keeping from him.  
  
There hadn’t been any particular reason for keeping the details from Sherlock, but in a way it was John’s little present for him.  
  
When they finally arrived Sherlock quickly got out of the cab, leaving John to pay, as usual. He walked over to Lestrade who was smiling widely at the oncoming detective, and from behind John smirked. He’d warned Lestrade not to say anything- or at least try to not make it too obvious- but he knew there was no point. If Lestrade wanted to say something he would, and Sherlock probably wouldn’t like it very much, but he’d just have to deal with it.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” Lestrade greeted, “how’s your special day been so far?”  
  
Sherlock scowled at the detective inspector before crouching down to inspect the body, ignoring Lestrade.  
  
When John arrived he gave Lestrade a pleading look, hoping that the detective inspector wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.  
  
“When was the body found?” Sherlock asked, already absorbed in the case.  
  
“I’ll answer your question when you answer mine,” Lestrade replied, still smirking.  
  
Sherlock huffed, clearly annoyed, and got up with a dramatic swish of his coat. “What do you want?”  
  
John could see Lestrade trying hard not to laugh at Sherlock’s annoyance. “Like I said, I was just wondering how your special day had been so far.”  
  
“It’s not a special day, and it’s been fine so far, thank you for asking,” Sherlock replied rather more sarcastically than usual. “It would be even better if you were to focus on the case and answer my question.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Lestrade conceded, raising his hands in surrender, “you shouldn’t be so cranky; it’s your birthday after all, enjoy it.”  
  
Lestrade looked much too pleased with himself and Sherlock shot him a death glare that would have silenced just about everyone, but Lestrade just burst out laughing. “I don’t see why you have such a problem with people knowing, Sherlock.”  
  
As if on cue Anderson showed up, having clearly heard that small revelation Sherlock was trying to avoid. He sauntered over to where Sherlock, John and Lestrade were and addressed himself to John.  
  
“Have you bought your boyfriend a gift yet then?”  
  
“Husband,” Sherlock and John corrected at the exact same time. Anderson looked shocked for a moment before looking down at their fingers and seeing the silver rings encompassing them. They hadn’t made an effort to hide them, but aside from Lestrade they hadn’t told anyone at the Yard.  
  
Anderson walked away without another word, no doubt to tell everyone else what he had just discovered. As soon as he left Lestrade started laughing again and John couldn’t help but join in.  
  
“Did you see his face?” Lestrade asked, still laughing. “I thought he wasn’t going to move, he looked so shocked.”  
  
John grinned at Sherlock who seemed to be over Anderson’s comment after seeing the look on his face. The detective smiled back at John and got back to work.  
  
By the end of the day the case was solved and they headed back home. As soon as they got in Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and turned towards John with an eager look in his eyes.  
  
“Can I?” he asked, with a note of pleading in his voice.  
  
John didn’t even have to ask what he wanted. He knew there was an experiment Sherlock wanted to do that John would have said no to at any other time, but he had promised after all, that Sherlock could do whatever experiments he wanted on his birthday.  
  
“Of course you can, I did promise.”  
  
John couldn’t help but smile at the look of excitement on the detective’s face and the spring in his step as he went to his old room to gather everything he needed.  
  
Hours later when Sherlock had satisfied his need to conduct strange experiments he had finally settled down on the sofa with John. He had his legs folded under him and his head on John’s chest. John, in turn, had wrapped his right arm around Sherlock and was slowly stroking his arm up and down with his fingers. Their hands were entwined on John’s lap, fingers twitching and fidgeting with one another absentmindedly.  
  
Eventually Sherlock broke the silence.  
  
“Was this better than last year?”  
  
John’s memory took him back a year, remembering coming home and drinking himself into a stupor and seeing Sherlock, wondering whether or not he had really been there. He had no doubts now.  
  
“You’re here,” he replied, “of course it’s better.”  
  
Sherlock craned his head up to meet John, their lips brushing softly before they went in for a kiss. Sherlock’s and John’s hands tightened together, John hugged him closer to his chest needing to feel his husband next to him.  
  
When they finally broke apart Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, eyes open, staring intensely into his husband’s. “I’m never leaving you again, John. I love you.”  
  
“I love you too,” John replied, “And I won’t let you leave, not again. We’re in this together.”  
  
“It’s just the two of us against the rest of the world.”


End file.
